


We Have Loved the Stars Too Fondly to be Fearful of the Night

by BrighteyedJill



Series: The Astronomer Series [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Abduction, Amnesia, Angst, Collars, Dom/sub, M/M, Mutism, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-03
Updated: 2009-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:38:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 57,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More than anyone else on the Enterprise, Leonard McCoy knows that space is disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence. As much as he’s seen in the two years since the Narada incident, he’s not prepared when a simple mission ends in the disappearance of a crewmember. The crew must adjust to the idea that one of their own may never come home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://redandglenda.livejournal.com/profile)[**redandglenda**](http://redandglenda.livejournal.com/) for catching my mistakes, [](http://vellum.livejournal.com/profile)[**vellum**](http://vellum.livejournal.com/) for not letting me get away with anything, and [](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/profile)[**jaune_chat**](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/) for everything always.Title quotation from [The Old Astronomer to His Pupil](http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Old_Astronomer_to_his_Pupil) by Sarah Williams.  
>  **Art:** by [](http://wheres-walnut.livejournal.com/profile)[**wheres_walnut**](http://wheres-walnut.livejournal.com/) is [here](http://wheres-walnut.livejournal.com/36817.html)  
>  **Fanmix** by [](http://earlofcardigans.livejournal.com/profile)[**earlofcardigans**](http://earlofcardigans.livejournal.com/) is [ here](http://snarkyrainbow.livejournal.com/447551.html)  
> 

Ensign Pavel Andreievich Chekov slid a finger across the conn, tracing the trajectory he’d calculated to take the Enterprise to her next destination. The math was correct, he knew, but he liked to feel out the path anyway, to feel it in his bones. When there was time, he liked to imagine different paths, perhaps not so direct, but maybe a trail a little more scenic, or a route that drew a more graceful line across the galaxy. When the Enterprise went to warp, there were no sights to see, of course. Still, Chekov imagined the pleasure of knowing they were passing by the Gamelan Nebula, or the double-ringed planet Mitos III, which Chekov had never seen in person. Chekov always found the most efficient course with ease, but the idea of the long way captured his attention and his imagination during many hours at the conn.

 

“Well what’s the point in getting there quickly if we won’t be able to help?”

 

Chekov’s musing was interrupted by the arrival of the Captain on the bridge, followed by the first officer and ship’s doctor. Their discussion had evidently begun some time ago, since Spock’s slower-than-usual speech pattern meant that he was repeating himself. “We will be able to more accurately assess the situation on Rellis after Doctor McCoy has a chance to examine the disease’s victims personally. It may be difficult to access the citizens infected by the outbreak.”

 

Sulu shot Chekov a significant look to which Chekov responded with a glare to cover his blush. No ship’s chief medical officer should have a reason to be on the bridge often, but Doctor McCoy had made twenty seven appearances on the bridge (including this one) in the three days since Chekov had confessed a certain secret to his friend. Now each visit by the doctor renewed Sulu’s efforts to encourage Chekov.

 

“Supplies, Spock,” Kirk said through gritted teeth. He managed to keep his voice at a civil level as he stalked across the bridge. “Even if we break through—or fine, talk our way through—the blockade, how are we going to stop the plague without the right supplies?”

 

“Doctor McCoy assured us that the medical bay is well stocked--.”

 

“To an extent,” McCoy broke in. “But Rellis is at the po-dunk end of the galaxy, and if we can’t figure out how to make a vaccine from what we’ve got on hand, well, you can’t get blood from a stone.”

 

“The relevance of the Doctor’s colloquialism is doubtful at best,” Spock shot back. Chekov wished he dared turn and see the scowl that without question marked the doctor’s face. “Components of most common vaccine ingredients are easily synthesized.”

 

“But,” McCoy countered. “If it is what their doctors think it is, this rare plague, then the vaccine ingredients won’t be common. And I doubt that the military will let us break their blockade a second time if we had to leave for supplies.”

 

“A reasonable assessment. However, despite the locals’ reports, the odds of this outbreak being caused by an undocumented virus are--.”

 

McCoy cut him off. “How many years into the damn mission, and you still haven’t learned the futility of quoting the odds on this ship?”

 

“Ensign.” Kirk abandoned his feuding companions and appeared at the conn beside Chekov. “How long to get us to Rellis?”

 

Chekov slid his hand away from the circuitous paths he’d been tracing so that Kirk could see the projected course. “Six hours, sir.”

 

“According to reports from Rellis, the death toll is rising every hour, Captain,” Spock said. Chekov chanced turning slightly in his chair to watch the exchange. Spock was composed as ever. He neither passionately defended a course of action nor vigorously opposed one; he simply presented facts and conclusions which he intended to speak for themselves.

 

McCoy, though his ever-present scowl knit his brows together and turned down the corners of his mouth, seemed merely concerned, and not about to come to blows with Spock, the way he sometimes looked during these debates on the bridge. Personally, Chekov speculated that the doctor respected Spock more than he let on, and only delivered his counterpoint opinions with such vigor to keep up appearances. McCoy shot back to Spock, “If we waste time going there and have to come back for supplies, the death toll will climb even higher. If their doctors say it’s this rare fever, we’ve got to be prepared.”

 

“I agree, Doctor. However, Mister Scott expressed his confidence that the ingredients could be synthesized--.”

 

“Could be. That’s a chance, not a guarantee. The only sure thing is to make sure to bring the right damn supplies.”

 

“Bones,” Kirk broke in. “What supplies would we need if this outbreak is what they say it is?”

 

“There’s a plant. _Ptelea convivus_. Grows on several M-class planets.”

 

Chekov and Sulu both moved at once, entering information into their consoles. Sulu piped up first. “Sir, the nearest planet where the plant grows is Janus II.”

 

“Janus II is not far out of the way, sir,” Chekov said, bringing up a new map on his console display. “Depending on how long it took to gather the specimens, the delay in arriving at Rellis would be about eight hours.”

 

Kirk leaned over Chekov’s shoulder to check the readout, then nodded. “Let’s do it.” He headed back to the command chair as he began spouting orders. Once the captain decided on a course of action, he was always sure of himself. “Chekov, plot a course for Janus II. Bones, figure out exactly what we’ll need. Spock, let’s put together a plan to lay in those supplies quickly. I want us at Rellis with as little delay as possible.”

 

“Aye sir,” Chekov said. He’d begun plotting a course as soon as he’d identified the planet, fingers flying surely over the conn. “Course set.”

 

Kirk settled back in his chair. “Take us out, Sulu. Warp six.”  
\--

 

When Hikaru Sulu walked into sickbay, McCoy and head nurse Chapel were hard at work assembling the apparatus to mass-produce a vaccine.

 

McCoy caught sight of him in the doorway and called, “What do you want?”

 

“We need to talk about your planet. _Ptelea convivus_.”

 

McCoy gave a harder-than-necessary twist to the knob he was turning. “Don’t tell me there’s a plant blight on Janus II, or that the plant only grows in the disputed territory of two warring tribes or any of that nonsense. I’m not in the mood.”

 

“No, there’s plenty of the plant, and it’s easily accessible,” Sulu said. “I just have a concern about harvesting it.”

 

“A concern.” McCoy stopped tinkering with the medical equipment and fixed Sulu with a suspicious glare. “Don’t we have botany specialists on this ship? Why are the two of us having this conversation?”

 

“First, because I’m the only one with a botany background qualified to lead an away team, and second, because the captain said you’d probably bite the head off of whoever came to talk to you, and I know how to defend myself,” Sulu said reasonably. Kirk hadn’t exactly said that Sulu was the only one who McCoy couldn’t easily intimidate out of sickbay, but then again, he hadn’t volunteered to come deliver the news to his friend himself.

 

“Okay then,” McCoy said slowly. “What is this _concern_?”

 

“ _Ptelea convivus_ is a powerful allergen.”

 

“Is that so?” McCoy snatched up the nearest data padd, punched in a command, and frowned at what he read there. “Seems ridiculous to make a vaccine out of a flower that most Federation species are allergic to,” he muttered. He headed deeper into sickbay, back toward his office, and Sulu followed.

 

“ _I_ didn’t come up with the vaccine.”

 

“Fine,” McCoy said. “Just make sure none of the away team’s allergic. My staff won’t have time to treat them if we’re busy manufacturing the vaccine.”

 

“That leaves out the captain.”

 

“That’s for damn sure. Man’s allergic to everything under every sun.” McCoy sank down into the chair behind his desk, still frowning at the data padd.

 

“I’m not allergic,” Sulu offered.

 

McCoy looked up hopefully. “You’re sure?”

 

“I have one of these plants in the collection in my room. And before you ask, no, the plants are impossible to synthesize.”

 

“Damn. How many more do you need for the away team?”

 

Sulu quickly tallied up the amount of manpower he would need. “Three more would be great.” On a whim, he added, “Chekov isn’t allergic.”

 

“You’re an expert on allergens, now?” McCoy furrowed his brow.

 

“He’s never had a reaction to my plant.”

 

“Okay then,” McCoy said slowly. “I can do allergy tests to find others who aren’t allergic.”

 

“Two more should be enough.”

 

He hit the com on his desk. “Nurse Chapel, can you call in the next twenty crew members on the away team rotation?”

 

“Yes doctor,” her answer crackled through the link.

 

“Should we do the test on Chekov just for good measure?” McCoy asked as he went over to a cabinet and began removing supplies. “How close has he been to this plant of yours?”

 

“He’s touched it with no ill effects. That’s all we need, right? I mean, he spends a lot of time in my quarters.”

 

“Does he,” McCoy said sourly.

 

“No, that’s… We’re friends, Doctor,” Sulu said quickly. Chekov would never forgive him if he let the object of Chekov’s affection think the ensign was taken. “I guess I should be flattered that you think he’d… But no. I’m not his type.”

 

“Hell, Sulu, I didn’t mean--,” McCoy said gruffly, and waved a hand in chagrined apology.

 

Sulu saw an opening, and even as his higher brain functions tried to rein in his mouth, his fighters’ instincts went for the point. “You’re his type.”

 

“Excuse me?” McCoy froze in mid-gesture, with his hand at an awkward angle in the air.

 

“You’re really haven’t noticed anything?” Sulu asked. The doctor might be excused for not recognizing Chekov’s interest, because the kid hadn’t exactly been obvious about it. Sulu was supposed to be his best friend, and he’d known for less than a week. If it hadn’t been for Chekov’s slip-up after leaving a game of drunken mah-jongg, Sulu might never have found out. However, now that he knew what to look for, Sulu recognized Chekov’s signs of nervousness every time McCoy walked into the room, and he marveled he hadn’t noticed before. He’d thought that the man the glances were being directed to would have noticed, but the doctor looked completely stymied, and Sulu began to regret his hasty words. “Forget it. I’ll send him to get the test, just to be sure.”

 

Sulu retreated at top speed, wondering how exactly he was going to break this to Chekov.  
\--

 

Chekov hopped up onto the bio bed and rolled up the right sleeve of his uniform shirt. “I am fairly sure I am not allergic,” he offered. He tried to sound cheerful and carefree, but his heart raced in his chest as if it wanted to climb into his throat.

 

“That’s what they all say.” McCoy held Chekov’s forearm steady and dabbed a concentrated liquid on his skin, just below the elbow. Chekov thought McCoy must surely be able to feel the blood pulsing overly-quickly through his veins, but if he could he made no comment. “We hold this about a minute.” His hands were gentle, as they had been on the few occasions Chekov had been treated in sickbay.

 

Chekov watched the doctor’s eyes, which were fixed firmly on the task at hand, and tried to imagine what McCoy was thinking. His choices were either to continue to worry in ignorance, or seize the moment and turn it to his advantage. As a tactical officer, he knew his duty. “Hikaru told me what he said to you,” he began. McCoy glanced up at Chekov from under furrowed brows, but his expression remained sardonic. “I am very sorry if he caused any embarrassment.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” McCoy said gruffly.

 

“He apologized to me, because it was not his secret to tell,” Chekov continued. And if they hadn’t been on the bridge, Chekov might have throttled him right there. He’d stared down at his control panel and counted to ten, first in Russian, then in Standard. Then he’d counted by sevens backwards from a thousand. Then he’d listed the first fifty prime numbers, then the digits of pi. His anger hadn’t gone away, but at least he’d been able to talk himself out of plotting to murder Hikaru in his sleep. By the time he’d surrendered his station to Lieutenant Kelso, he had been feeling charitable enough to give Hikaru an annoyed eye roll, a signal that all wasn’t forgiven yet, but that it could be eventually.

 

Now that Chekov faced the source of the problem, he could at least feel grateful that Hikaru had given them something to talk about. “However, I think perhaps he should apologize to you. If it made you uncomfortable, I mean.”

 

“It’s not a problem,” McCoy said. He dropped his eyes back to Chekov’s arm, and the motion triggered a vague suspicion. The doctor was not a shy man. He always said what he thought, and said it to the face of whoever was around, up to and including superior officers. From the crew’s first days together, facing the Narada, Chekov had surmised that McCoy never bothered to hide his emotions. Perhaps his response meant something more than he was saying.

 

Chekov considered, then, how Sulu’s boldness might have won him an opportunity, if only he was brave enough to seize it. “Okay then,” Chekov said thoughtfully. “What kind of not a problem is it?”

 

McCoy looked up again, and Chekov’s suspicions were confirmed; McCoy’s poker face was terrible, and he couldn’t hide his surprise at Chekov’s line of questioning. “I…”

 

“Doctor?” Nurse Chapel stepped around the corner. “The next away team candidates are here for their tests.”

 

“Right. Yes. Be right there,” McCoy said. As Chapel left, McCoy pulled the patch off Chekov’s arm and pulled it closer to look at the skin. “Test’s clean. Looks like you and Sulu were right. About being allergic, I mean.” He quickly let go of Chekov’s arm and stepped back from the bed. “You’re cleared for duty, Ensign.”

 

“Thank you.” Chekov turned his sleeve back down. Before McCoy could leave, he called, “Doctor.” McCoy paused, and turned halfway back. “Could I perhaps come back to sickbay tomorrow?”

 

McCoy shook his head slowly. “Kid, I don’t think--.”

 

“Well, think.” Chekov jumped off the bio bed. “Just think a little bit about it, and tomorrow maybe when I stop by you will tell me to get the hell out of your sickbay, and I will understand.” He stepped past McCoy, but paused for a moment at the entrance to the room. “But maybe you will not tell me to go away.” He turned back to flash McCoy a smile. “Only think. Goodbye, Doctor.”  
\--

 

On Janus II, great flat plains stretched out in all directions as far as Chekov could see. It reminded him of visiting his cousins in Ulan-Ude, on the great steppe. That summer on the vast, flat plain, practicing his running, he’d felt as if he could have run all day, lost himself in the great sameness of the fields, and been content to keep running forever. As lighthearted as he felt right now, he would have loved to run. But duty called.

 

He hoisted the strap of his specimen carrying bag up onto his shoulder and turned to watch as Sulu finished demonstrating the equipment for the other two members of the away team.

 

“Close it like this, so the plants don’t get bruised.” Sulu motioned for Chekov to come join them. “Okay. The mature plants are the ones best suited to making the medicine we need,” Sulu explained. “They have deep orange flowers.” He held up an example. “Immature plants have yellow flowers, and they’re no use to us. We need to gather as many plants as possible to give Doctor McCoy enough material to work with. Any questions?”

 

The other two members of the away team, an engineering ensign and a yeoman from security, shook their heads.

 

“Use your communicators if you see any unusual life forms or run into any trouble. Planetary scans suggest that’s unlikely, but it’s better to be safe. We’ll meet back at these coordinates at 14:00 hours.”

 

Thus dismissed, the other two crewmembers headed off into the fields. Chekov lingered a moment to say, “I am not mad at you anymore.”

 

“Well that’s a relief,” Sulu said. He offered up a chagrined smile. “I know you’re vicious when it comes to payback.”

 

Chekov wagged a finger at him warningly. “Tell you what. Let us make a bet. If I bring back more plants than you bring back, then I get to do something for revenge anyway. If you bring back more, you are off the hook.”

 

“You’re on.” Sulu shouldered his own bag. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

 

“Don’t you know? The Russians invented plant harvesting.” Chekov flashed a wide smile. “May the best man win!” He tossed Sulu a jaunty wave before stepping off into the endless fields of waving, pastel plant life.  
\--

 

Sulu arrived at the rendezvous site two minutes early. His pack was stuffed with a bountiful harvest of _ptelea convivus_ , plus a few individually sealed samples of other plants for further study. This part of Janus II was mind-numbingly flat, and Sulu easily picked out the red uniforms of Ensign Dupris and Yeoman Taylor as they made their way back through the endless fields of waving flora.

 

Sulu smiled as he realized that he and Chekov, in their gold uniforms, were nearly invisible in this landscape. He squinted out across the sun-bathed meadows, making a game of trying to pick out his friend: the sandy hair, pale skin, and mustard-colored uniform would give him near-perfect camouflage. By the time Dupris and Taylor had reached Sulu and dropped their full packs to the ground, he still hadn’t been able to spot Chekov. He glanced at the chronometer on his communicator: six minutes past the time they’d agreed to meet.

 

“He coming?” Dupris asked.

 

“Probably just got caught up,” Sulu said lightly, but he found it difficult to believe that Chekov was capable of losing track of time. Chekov arrived ten minutes early for every shift on the bridge. He beat Spock to staff meetings. He was the first one to show up at every ship social gathering. Still, like other geniuses, he did occasionally get caught up in his work. Sulu imagined him kneeling in the dirt next to some unusual specimen of tree, gathering every possible reading with his tricorder. True, that kind of absorption was more likely to occur around star charts than plant life, but anything was possible. Sulu flipped open his communicator. “Sulu to Chekov.”

 

Every second of silence that passed sent Sulu’s heart rate galloping upwards. “Come in Chekov.”

 

Nothing happened. The three of them stood there, listening to a gentle breeze flutter through the plants around them as the communicator remained silent.

 

Sulu glanced up at Dupris and Taylor. “Did either of you see him out there?”

 

“No,” Dupris said slowly.

 

Taylor shook her head. “Nothing but plants.”

 

Sulu waited another minute, staring at his communicator and willing it to chirp with an incoming message. He looked back up at the horizon, where still nothing moved but plants waving in the wind. He hit a button on the communicator. “Sulu to Enterprise.”

 

“Uhura here. Go ahead, Lieutenant.”

 

“We’re having difficulty with Ensign Chekov’s communicator.” Sulu was amazed at how steady his voice sounded. “Can you locate his signal?”

 

“Stand by.”

 

Sulu stood calmly, and flashed a thin smile at the away team. He’d meant to be reassuring, but the two crewmembers exchanged a worried glance. Sulu went back to scanning the horizon until his communicator crackled back to life. He was disappointed to hear only Uhura’s voice.

 

“We’re receiving no signal from Ensign Chekov’s communicator. Are you sure it’s functioning properly?”

 

“I don’t know,” he said softly. “Uhura… Check again.”  
\--

 

“No,” Kirk said firmly. “I am not warping into a war zone without my navigator or my helmsman.” He threw himself down in the command chair and tapped a finger against the arm as his mind raced, looking for a solution.

 

Spock came to stand beside him with hands clasped behind his back, composed as ever. “There are other qualified officers on board to man those posts.”

 

“You expect me just to leave them here?”

 

“Give Lieutenant Sulu more time to search,” Spock said. “Send down proper supplies and a security team and allow him to remain on planet. We can retrieve them when we return from Rellis.” Spock’s tone was even, calculated to soothe, Kirk knew. It was mostly working.

 

Kirk allowed himself another minute to examine the situation, turn it over in his mind, and try to identify another solution. Finally he said, “I don’t like this.”

 

“Consider, Captain, if the missing crew member were a close personal friend of yours.” Spock stepped in front of him, forcing eye contact. “For example, Doctor McCoy. In such a case, I predict there would be an 89% chance of your breaking protocol to continue a missing persons search despite Starfleet orders. I suggest you extend Mister Sulu the same opportunity.”

 

“McCoy,” Kirk muttered. Though he had to admit Spock’s comparison was accurate. He’d broken the rules plenty of times for McCoy, or for Spock, for that matter. That didn’t mean it was a sound strategy. “You’re suggesting that I show favoritism?”

 

“Not at all Captain,” Spock said, and if possible he seemed to stand up straighter. “I only suggest that Lieutenant Sulu would not do his best work if he were called back to duty at this time.”

 

“You make a strong point.” Kirk’s eyes slid past his first officer to take in the sight of Janus II glowing on the main viewscreen. “Make it happen. Then take us to Rellis.” He stood up quickly. “You have the bridge, Spock.”

 

Kirk fled the bridge not out of cowardice, but to remove the temptation of second-guessing himself. Spock was more than capable of seeing that Sulu was properly outfitted. So Kirk took the liberty of a few minutes to walk off the tightness in his stomach that came with a difficult command decision. His feet carried him down to deck seven. A crewman holding an unmarked box stepped out of sickbay and headed down the hall. Kirk glanced inside the open doors to see a handful of blue-shirted medical personnel bustling about with equipment Kirk didn’t recognize.

 

He stepped inside, navigating the crowded room adroitly until he made it back to McCoy’s office. Bones was inside, standing over a flower-filled bag laid open on his desk.

 

“You all set here, Bones?”

 

McCoy didn’t even look up, just continued sorting flowers. “Got all the plants we can use for this damn vaccine.”

 

Uhura’s voice came over the ship-wide communications, but it held a sharper edge than usual. “All crew, prepare to go to warp. We’ll be arriving at Rellis within two hours.”

 

Kirk gripped the doorframe hard. Although he knew there would be no jolt when the ship entered warp, still he felt the strain of leaving part of his crew behind.

 

Bones didn’t seem to notice his behavior. “I trust since no one came to my sickbay with hives and tingling extremities that the away team proved not to be allergic to this stuff. All made it back okay?”

 

“Actually.”

 

“What?” Now Bones did look up, and at the expression on Kirk’s face his hand closed into a fist, crushing the flower he held. “Jim, what?”

 

“Chekov,” Kirk said softly. “Chekov’s missing.”

 

Bones seemed unable to form words. His lips parted slightly, and his brow furrowed as if he were about to deliver a particularly cutting reply, but nothing came out. Finally, he croaked, “You left him on the planet?” He drew himself up to his full height as shock gave way quickly to righteous anger: a coping mechanism at which the good doctor excelled. “Alone?”

 

“Sulu and the rest of the away team are looking for him.”

 

“You left them on the planet?” he repeated, louder this time.

 

“Bones, we have to get to Rellis with this vaccine,” Jim said. He looked down. “People are dying.”

 

“I know that, Jim.” On hearing that vulnerability creep into Kirk’s voice, McCoy relented a little. “When you say missing…”

 

Kirk knew what he was asking. He had “lost” crewmen before, of course, but the word had always been a euphemism for getting crushed by a rock monster, or blown up by a phaser blast, or eaten by unfriendly fauna. It had never meant simply gone without a trace. “We just don’t know where he went.” He forced out a laugh that sounded more like a cough. “He’ll be okay. Sulu will find him, probably knocked out by the pollen of some crazy plant no one’s documented. We’ll name the subspecies after him when we get back from Rellis, and we’ll all have a good laugh.” He jumped up and rolled his shoulders back to work some of the tension out of them. But talking had sent his mind racing again. The work on Rellis might take days, and by the time they returned, any clues of where else to search would be stale. And if Chekov was hurt, or trapped somewhere, Sulu might not have the right equipment to get him out. Or--.

 

“Jim…” Bones started around the desk with a hand outstretched, but Kirk turned his back and headed for the door.

 

“We need the vaccine, Bones. We’ll be there in a few hours.”  
\--

 

Leonard McCoy was no man’s savior. The mission on Rellis was going as well as could be expected, but McCoy couldn’t be happy about it. Their gratitude stifled him. Usually he enjoyed these sorts of missions; helping people up close and personally reminded him why it was worth flying around the dangerous vacuum of space in a glorified tin can. Today, however, he begrudged the Rellisites every moment spent diagnosing the disease—it _was_ Tellarian spotted fever after all—, distributing cases of hypospray cartridges filled with vaccine, and walking the royal physician through a treatment plan. He knew every minute spent on Rellis was another moment the Enterprise’s full capabilities were not devoted to recovering her missing navigator.

 

At least the political situation hadn’t caused too much delay. Jim had been in the mood for problem-solving, and had talked the Enterprise through the military blockage with remarkable ease. The man may have cultivated a persona of recklessness, but McCoy knew his friend could apply his genius to diplomacy when necessary. In this case, he’d enabled Bones and his team to beam down to the plague-stricken city with no interference from the hostile military.

 

Now that the worst cases of the plague were being treated, McCoy had a moment alone to sit in an out-of-the-way corner and sort through the inventory of the Enterprise’s medical supplies to determine what they could leave behind for the Rellisites. As he checked items off the list, McCoy couldn’t help thinking of Chekov, lost and alone on a strange planet. Odd how often the ensign entered his thoughts, considering how different their positions were on the ship. By all rights, a ship’s CMO should have no reason to visit the bridge, but the Enterprise wasn’t quite like any other ship in the fleet. McCoy was on the bridge often, offering advice or criticism even when Jim didn’t ask. And as navigator, Chekov wasn’t required to perform other duties, but his boundless curiosity took him everywhere on the ship and off of it. McCoy had often found Chekov in sickbay, asking about how a piece of equipment worked, offering to program a more efficient subroutine to store data from the biobeds, or pestering McCoy to get the captain to install a proper track so Chekov wouldn’t have to run on a treadmill. A real track would be better “for health purposes,” he claimed. And he missed running, he said, when he didn’t go anywhere.

 

Nurse Chapel touched McCoy’s shoulder, and he nearly dropped the padd he was working on.

 

“Doctor,” she said sternly. “You’ve been up almost forty hours.”

 

“Just like med school again,” he said wearily. He set down the padd, which had begun to blur in front of his eyes.

 

“You should go back to the ship. Doctor M’Benga can finish supervising the treatment for now.”

 

“We’re not ready to go yet?”

 

Christine shook her head. “Almost. We’ve distributed the vaccine. Once the rest of the infected patients are stabilized, the Rellisites can handle the rest.”

 

McCoy stood up, wincing at how his knees ached. “I’m staying until the work’s done. Where are these patients?”

 

“You’re exhausted. We have the situation under control. There’s plenty of time to rest.”

 

“No, we have to get back. We left him. Left them.”

 

Christine caught his arm. “What are you saying? Left who where?”

 

McCoy looked away. Of course there hadn’t been a ship-wide announcement, no flashing memo from the captain saying they were abandoning an away team. Jim kept the crew up-to-date on most things, but he didn’t see a reason to worry the whole ship unnecessarily. Only a few on board the Enterprise understood the need to speed back to Janus II. “It’s nothing, Christine,” he said. His exhaustion suddenly seemed crushing. “I’m just tired.”

 

“I know,” she said soothingly, and steered him back to the corner where he’d been sitting. “You’re not treating anyone in this state. I’ll give you the prevention of infection procedure to review before we hand it over to the royal physician.”

 

“Fine,” McCoy muttered, but he took the padd that Christine offered. “Let me know the minute M’Benga’s done, will you?”

 

“Yes, sir.”  
\--

 

Sulu hadn’t slept, but he wasn’t tired. He’d spent all day yesterday organizing search grids and supervising the security team walking every square meter of the surrounding plain. When the sun went down, Sulu ordered rest in shifts and kept groups up searching by artificial light in an ever-expanding pattern until he was sure they’d gone further than Chekov could have walked. Halfway through today, he’d had the search team modify their tricorders to scan for organic masses beneath the surface and scan the ground they’d already covered in case the earth had swallowed Chekov up. By late afternoon the second day, the Enterprise had returned, and Uhura’s voice asking for a status report left Sulu feeling more defeated than ever in his life.

 

There was nowhere else to search.

 

Sulu had sent the security team back to the ship and walked back to the original rendezvous point: the last place he’d seen Chekov. Sulu stood looking out over the field, praying to the god of his childhood that if he just stared hard enough at the waving fields, Chekov would come walking toward him, carrying a bulging bag of _ptelea convivus_ and apologizing for having caused a fuss.

 

“Sulu,” Kirk said. He stepped up behind him on the grassy knoll that barely rose above the rest of the rolling yellow plain. Sulu hadn’t even heard him beam down.

 

“Sir,” he said wearily.

 

They stood together watching the light from the sinking sun turn the fields orange. “He’s not here,” Kirk said at last. “You would have found him if he were.”

 

“He’s not dead,” Sulu snapped.

 

“I didn’t say he was, Sulu.”

 

“He’s not.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“We can’t just leave him here.”

 

“He’s not here,” Kirk said, more firmly this time. “The ship’s scanners aren’t picking up anything, and more importantly, you didn’t find anything. If I trust anyone to have done this job right, I trust you.”

 

Sulu flinched. Kirk had trusted him to keep the away team safe, too, but he hadn’t succeeded in that either. “If he’s not here, where is he?”

 

“Off planet, maybe,” Kirk said, as gently as he could.

 

“He didn’t just wander off planet,” Sulu snapped. Belatedly, he added, “Sir.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Sulu was profoundly grateful that Kirk didn’t offer empty words of comfort and tell him they were sure to find Chekov soon. Kirk didn’t deny what they both knew: terrible things happened in space. The two of them had cheated death together enough times to know its threat was real. “What’s next?” Sulu asked.

 

The plains had turned red in the sunset, and in the deepening shadows, Kirk’s face was difficult to read. “We file a missing in action report. An alert goes out to the rest of the Fleet. If there’s any news--.”

 

“Do you really think there will be?”

 

“Why? Are you giving up on him?”

 

“No!” Sulu said quickly. “No.”

 

“Okay then. Kirk to Enterprise. Two to beam up.”  
\--

 

Lieutenant Uhura scanned the report on the display in front of her one more time before she raised a finger to get the captain’s attention. He heaved himself out of the command chair and casually made his way over to her station.

 

She pitched her voice below the hum of activity on the bridge. The other officers were already on edge, and Uhura had no wish to raise anyone’s hopes unnecessarily. The captain had to know what she’d found, but she particularly wanted to keep this knowledge from Sulu, who sat a half-dozen paces away at the helm, staring intently at the darkness of space rushing by on the main viewscreen.

 

“Captain. I’ve been monitoring local communications channels in case they turned up any sign of…” She paused, glancing over the bridge, and Kirk nodded.

 

“I get it. Go on.”

 

“It’s not a busy sector, sir. Most of the vessels in the area are commercial or private craft, mostly Federation. A few non. There’s a Coridan mining ship, an Usite trader, a cruise ship from Elas, a Nausicaan mercenary outfit--.”

 

“Now that sounds suspicious. What are they doing here?”

 

“They said they’d just returned from an engagement on Troyius protecting a dilithium refining operation from feuding local factions.” She brought up a view of the credentials she’d been sent. “I contacted the Troyian authorities, and they check out.”

 

“Damn. Other leads?”

 

“I’m monitoring all civilian frequencies, including encrypted ones. If any mention is made of Janus II, I’ll know.”

 

“You can do that?” Kirk asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

 

“I wouldn’t mention it to Commander Spock,” she said.

 

“Ah. Against regulation?”

 

“Somewhat.”

 

“Your secret’s safe with me,” he said with a smile. “Did you send out the message I asked you to?”

 

“Yes.” She switched the view to the missing-in-action report she’d transmitted to the fleet hours ago.

 

“Thank you.” He turned to go, but Uhura touched his shoulder to stop him.

 

“Sir, we get one or two missing-in-action communications from Starfleet every week,” she said. No one could hope to read every message the Enterprise received, but as the officer who monitored all ship-board communications, Uhura made it a point to keep an eye on all communications from the fleet, even those that weren’t required reading.

 

Kirk stepped back closer to her station and lowered his voice again. “Why have I never seen one?”

 

“They’re sent to you along with all other standard priority paperwork.”

 

“Which I could never hope to keep up with.” His mouth tightened into a thin line, and Uhura recognized the signs of his building frustration. “So you’re saying that sending an MIA report is useless?”

 

“Not exactly,” Uhura said. She had given the matter some thought as more hours passed since Chekov’s disappearance. “There are four other ‘Fleet ships within audio communication range. If you contact their captains directly, they may be more likely to help.

 

“That’s brilliant, Uhura. Can you get me a private link in my quarters?”

 

“Yes sir.” Uhura began initiating the sequence on her station that would create the necessary protocols in the captain’s quarters, but paused when she realized Kirk still stood beside her, staring out at the main viewscreen where Janus II loomed. “Sir.” When he turned back to her, he looked tired. “We’ll find him.”

 

“Thanks, Lieutenant.” He gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze which she didn’t begrudge, and strode off the bridge.  
\--

 

Lieutenant Kelso pointed from the navigator’s chair at a flashing light on the conn. “Hey, watch--.”

 

“Damn it!”

 

Kirk turned around from where he stood looking over a report with Spock at the science station just in time to see Sulu scrambling at the controls. Apparently, he couldn’t move in time to accomplish whatever he’d meant to do.

 

Everyone on board the bridge reached for something solid as the floor beneath their feet tilted precipitously in a way for which gravity control wasn’t equipped to compensate.

 

Kirk hauled himself upright against a chair and called, “Status report.”

 

Kelso opened his mouth to speak, but Sulu jumped in ahead of him. “All clear, Captain. There’s no danger.”

 

Kelso checked something on his panel. “And it looks like there’s no damage from the asteroid. Our shields took the brunt of it.”

 

“Asteroid? Is that what we ran into?” Kirk marched over to the helm to peer at the display. Sure enough, the glowing dot that marked the Enterprise flashed on the screen at the edge of the Seminil Asteroid Belt, more than a hundred thousand kilometers off the projected course.

 

Kelso looked at the display, then up at Kirk apprehensively. Sulu pointedly kept his eyes on the panel in front of them. “Fine,” Kirk said. “Kelso, make sure there’s no damage and double check our course heading, please. Mister Sulu, a word?”

 

Sulu stood up silently and followed Kirk off the bridge. Kirk steered them into an empty alcove in the deserted corridor outside. Sulu still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

 

“Do you want to tell me what that was all about?” He cursed himself for sounding like every authority figure he’d ever hated as a child.

 

“I’m sorry Captain,” Sulu said immediately. “It won’t happen again.”

 

“I’m not worried about the damn asteroid, Sulu. I’m worried about you.”

 

“I’m fine. I can do my duty. I…”

 

“What?” Kirk glanced around, but they were alone. “Sulu, what?”

 

“Permission to speak freely, sir?” he asked. The request sounded strange coming from a man who’d saved Kirk’s life, and had his saved in return a dozen times over in the past two years.

 

“Of course,” Kirk said impatiently.

 

“It’s been a week.” Sulu’s breath caught in his throat—restrained anger, Kirk recognized it well—but he pushed through it. “A whole _week_ , and we haven’t done _anything._ ”

 

“Sulu--.”

 

But Sulu showed no signs of stopping now that Kirk had given him an opening. “If someone took Chekov off that planet, they could be anywhere, and you haven’t even looked for him.”

 

“Sulu.” Kirk grabbed his shoulders to stop him. “Listen to me. We are looking. I’ve been in contact with three other Federation captains in the area. They’re stopping every suspicious ship that’s been anywhere near Janus II. We’re in contact with the local authorities. We--.”

 

“It’s not enough. There’s got to be something more I—something more we can do.”

 

“I’m open to suggestions, here. We’ve done everything but start turning over rocks.”

 

“Every day that passes there’s less chance of us finding him.” Sulu began to say more, but checked himself. Finally he settled on, “Every minute he could be getting further away.”

 

“I know. I want to find him too.”

 

“In there just now, when I should have been thinking about keeping us out of the damn asteroid fields, I was thinking about how we might find him.” Sulu scrubbed a hand through his hair, and Kirk noticed for the first time how strained he looked, how close to the edge he must be running. “That we’d suddenly run into a Klingon ship that was demanding ransom for a captured enemy combatant. Or that he’d somehow gone along with a colony ship because they’d had some engineering emergency that he knew how to fix, and then he didn’t have any way to contact us. And those were the more realistic scenarios I came up with.”

 

Kirk understood. The captains he’d spoken to hadn’t provided any new leads, although they’d promised to do what they could. But even for as active an imagination as Kirk’s, the possibilities were dwindling. Still, to Sulu he said, “A million things could have happened. We’re going to keep looking.”

 

Sulu nodded, but the movement was jerky, as if he’d half-forgotten how to make his body obey simple commands. That stiffness was the only physical indicator that Sulu was eating himself up with guilt over Chekov’s disappearance. Kirk marveled again at Sulu’s toughness; he’d held together admirably over the past week, but hope couldn’t endlessly survive being crushed by the passage of time.

 

“Have you contacted his parents?” Sulu asked.

 

“It’s a bit soon for that,” Kirk said quietly, thought it wasn’t, really. He’d thought about calling them two days ago, and yesterday, and again this morning. Each time, he told himself he’d wait to hear if Uhura had a new report, or he’d try contacting the science outpost on Janus II’s moon once more, or maybe there’d be a message waiting for him on the bridge.

 

“When you do, is it alright if I talk to them?” Sulu asked. “They’ve met me, at least.”

 

“It’s my responsibility,” Kirk said. Chekov’s parents deserved that much, at least.

 

“He’s an only child. They’re probably already wondering why they haven’t received his weekly message.” Sulu laughed weakly. “He writes them about every silly little thing that happens on this ship.”

 

“Spock told me that Chekov modified the data storage parameters to give himself more mail allotment.” Kirk shook his head at the memory.

 

“Trust Pavel to hack the system just so he could store more letters from his mother.” Sulu’s smile looked as if it pained him, and his eyes fixed on the bulkhead behind Kirk, seeing another time, another place.

 

“Sulu, take the rest of the shift off,” Kirk said. He didn’t like to lose the services of his best pilot, but he’d lost them already, he knew, in Sulu’s preoccupation with his missing friend. The man needed time to mourn. “In fact, take tomorrow, too.”

 

Sulu’s face hardened in resolve, and he looked more like the tough-as-nails officer Kirk was accustomed to. “I don’t want to sit in my quarters. Sir. I want to help.”

 

“There’s nothing any of us can do that we aren’t already doing,” Kirk said firmly. “And you can’t be on the bridge in this state.”

 

Sulu nodded his acquiescence. “I’m sorry, sir.”

 

“No harm done. We’ve hit worse things than asteroids.”

 

“No,” Sulu said roughly. He looked away, down the hallway. “I mean I’m sorry I lost him. I was in charge down there. It’s my fault.”

 

“Things happen that we can’t control. You didn’t do anything I wouldn’t have done,” Kirk said, though he knew the words weren’t much comfort.

 

“Maybe.” Sulu shook his head. “But if I’d have figured out sooner that he was gone, if I hadn’t let them go alone, if we’d maintained radio contact…”

 

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

“Yes sir,” Sulu said grudgingly.

 

Kirk knew Sulu didn’t believe him, but he didn’t know what else to say. Sulu would have to make his own peace with what happened, and no one could help him with that. “Go get some rest.”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“Sulu,” Kirk called, and he turned back slowly. Kirk wanted to make sure Sulu wouldn’t retreat into himself, wouldn’t keep himself at the distance Kirk was already having trouble bridging. “Meet me in exercise room three after alpha shift and bring your swords. I’ll let you run me around the mats.”

 

“Can I come back to duty tomorrow?”

 

“We’ll see.”  
\--

 

McCoy had hoped that walking into sickbay would end the conversation, but Jim was relentless.

 

“Will you talk to him?”

 

“Damnit Jim.”

 

“Come on, please.”

 

“I’m a doctor, not a grief counselor.” McCoy headed right to his office. He’d certainly need to break out the flask if this conversation lasted much longer. He had no interest in examining his own feelings about Ensign Chekov’s disappearance, let alone someone else’s.

 

“He won’t talk to the counselor.”

 

McCoy waited until the door hissed closed to mutter, “So, because Doctor Chalmers is terrible at his job, I have to pay the price?” He dropped into his desk chair.

 

“He won’t talk to me either.” Jim leaned against the edge of McCoy’s desk. “Bones, I can’t…”

 

McCoy sighed. That half-confession, Jim’s well-guarded vulnerability, pricked at him. In the years that Kirk had been in command of the Enterprise, he’d gotten much better at solving problems without his fists, but it was still difficult for him to admit that some things were beyond him. Even though all McCoy wanted to do was crawl into a bottle every time someone brought up Pavel Chekov, he’d go rub salt in his wounds if it would help his friend. “All right,” he said. “I can’t guarantee anything.”

 

Jim slapped him on the shoulder harder than necessary, to cover his genuine relief. “Thanks.”  
\--

 

McCoy half hoped that Sulu wouldn’t answer his door. Any sane member of alpha shift would be asleep by now. McCoy hadn’t exactly been putting off this visit, but he’d stayed in sickbay longer than necessary busying himself with make-work: checking up on the nurses, completing some overdue paperwork, and re-stocking an emergency med kit.

 

An interminable moment after McCoy rang, the door slid open to reveal Hikaru Sulu in standard-issue sleep pants and black undershirt. His eyes looked dark and sunken in, and a scowl worthy of McCoy’s own marred his face. “You make house calls now?”

 

“Hello to you too.” McCoy had to admit a certain grim satisfaction at the sign that someone else looked as wrecked as he felt about Chekov’s disappearance.

 

Sulu stepped aside grudgingly. McCoy stepped in, and the door slid closed behind him.

 

“The Captain send you?”

 

“Yes.” No reason to deny it. “Anything you want to say?”

 

“It’s been four days. Can you tell the captain I can go back on duty?”

 

“Depends. You want to talk about what the hell’s the matter with you?”

 

“Not particularly, no.”

 

“Then no. Drink?” McCoy held out his flask.

 

“Yes please.” Sulu retrieved two clean glasses from a storage cabinet by the bed and set them on the little table in the front of the room. He sat down while McCoy poured.

 

McCoy doled them out a generous measure apiece, then screwed the lid back on his flask. Sulu raised his glass briefly to McCoy before slugging back the whole drink.

 

McCoy frowned and sipped at his own as Sulu considered his empty glass.

 

“Whiskey?” Sulu asked.

 

“Bourbon.”

 

“Not my drink of choice.”

 

“You shouldn’t be drinking, anyway. You haven’t been sleeping, have you.”

 

“This the ship’s doctor asking?” Sulu asked guardedly. “Because I _am_ fit to go back on duty.”

 

“Don’t lay that crap on me.” McCoy poured them both another round. “You’re a mess.”

 

“You’re one to talk,” Sulu snapped. Then he scrubbed a hand through his hair and shook his head. “Sorry.”

 

“Here.” McCoy pushed the fresh drink across the table. “And sip this time.”

 

“You must have a good supply of this stuff.”

 

“Used a lot this past week.” McCoy flinched as soon as the words came out of his mouth, but he covered it by taking a gulp of his drink. He’d come here to get Sulu to talk, not to dump his own baggage on a man who was already struggling.

 

Strangely, the admission seemed to put Sulu at ease. “Look, I’m sorry I told you that, about his… About the way he felt about you. I mean, now that all of this--.”

 

“Forget about it,” McCoy told him. He knew _he_ was trying to. “You couldn’t have known what was going to happen.”

 

“He was pissed when I told him what I said. I think the fact that we were on the bridge at the time was the only thing that saved me from a punch in the face. It’s funny, when you don’t know it might be the last time…” Sulu picked up McCoy’s flask and refilled both glasses. “If he would just come back, I’d keep a hundred secrets for him.”

 

McCoy picked up his fresh drink and considered it. “He wouldn’t ask you to.”

 

“No, you’re right. I never thought you knew him that well.”

 

“I don’t,” McCoy said grudgingly. And now, selfishly, he was glad. Knowing how many bottles he’d emptied in the last week, he didn’t want to think what a state he’d be in if he’d been as close to Chekov as Sulu was. “I just see the way he acts around his friends.”

 

“Sounds like you’ve given him some thought.”

 

“He’s nineteen. We don’t exactly run in the same social circles,” McCoy muttered. Sulu watched him appraisingly until McCoy felt the need to go on. “But fine, yes, maybe I’d given him some thought. Just theoretical speculation, mind you.”

 

“Of course. He has a way of drawing people into his orbit, even when he’s not making an effort.”

 

“Well, it’s not as if we’re best friends.” McCoy clutched his drink tighter. “But of the two of you are. Best friends.”

 

Sulu nodded tightly. “Just happened that way.”

 

“So tell me something about him,” McCoy said, and sipped at his bourbon. If they were going to get drunk together, they may as well tell stories, too.

 

“You remember our shore leave on Rigel II?” Sulu twisted his glass in his hand and leaned back in his chair. “Well, when all the other officers went to that bar, the one with the veil dancers, Chekov dragged me outside the city limits so we could look at the stars. He always said he liked to see how they looked from a planet’s surface. He collects constellations. Did you know that? Every place we visit, when he gets a chance, he finds out what constellations they name. He says you can learn a lot about a people by what they name their constellations.”

 

“That time we were stranded on Minnegon for a night, he kept us all entertained by naming his own constellations.” McCoy stared at the rich, golden bourbon where it caught the light filtering through the glass. He’d passed around his flask that night, too: just him, Chekov, Jim, and Spock on some alien rock looking up at a sky crowded with stars. “I couldn’t see most of them he tried to show us, but I remember one he made up. Yegor, the hunter. Kind of squarish formation with a bump, but he said it looked like a man holding a phaser.”

 

Sulu’s chuckle dried up in his throat. “We shouldn’t be eulogizing him. He’s not dead.”

 

“Right.” Anyone else would probably be dead. McCoy was under no illusions about what space could do to a man. But Enterprise’s entire crew seemed to have nine lives. Besides, Chekov had surprised McCoy before. If Sulu could keep hope alive, McCoy could do the same.

 

Sulu raised his glass. “To Pavel Andreievich Chekov.”

 

“To Chekov.”  



	2. Chapter 2

_One Year Later_

 

“I can be subtle,” Kirk said, and looked to his first officer for backup. 

 

Spock obliged grudgingly. “Captain Kirk has shown remarkable growth in matters of diplomacy in recent years,” he reported. 

 

“Thanks for that ringing endorsement, Spock.”

 

The Starfleet intelligence officer who was providing the briefing glared at Kirk. “Yes. Well. We won’t be able to shut down the whole operation right away. Remember, any flashy heroics to tip them off, and they’ll pick up shop and move to another world, leaving us to start over.”

 

“Point taken,” Kirk said. And he did understand; he’d asked the fleet to be included in this mission, after all. However, the paper-pusher they’d sent seemed not to think much of Kirk’s sincerity. The rest of Kirk’s senior staff, gathered around the table, watched closely for his response. Kirk returned the man’s scowl. “Stop glaring at me like I’m going to whip out my phaser if somebody looks at me the wrong way.”

 

Spock jumped in before Kirk could pick a fight. “Mister Trenach, you were saying something about the Federation laws that ban trafficking in sentient beings?”

 

“Yes,” the intelligence officer said, and brushed out nonexistent wrinkles from his red shirt. “Yes, thank you, Commander. The Bussarians knew about our anti-trafficking laws, and asked for our help shutting down this operation. The local government doesn’t have a lot of resources, so they couldn’t stand against the trading syndicate when they decided to set up shop. They’ve got a cozy little place: easily accessible, built-in clientele, complacent locals, and they’ve managed to escape the Federation’s notice.”

 

“Until now,” Kirk said. “You had a plan to propose, Spock?”

 

“Yes. The syndicate is by necessity suspicious and insular. Strangers are able to buy individual slaves at public auction, but to have any hope of gaining sufficient intelligence on their operation, we will need to acquire a group of slaves. The tracking chips implanted in their collars will contain information about their previous whereabouts. With enough data, we may be able to piece together a map of their supply chain and takes steps to monitor their activity.”

 

“I thought they wouldn’t sell to us,” Kirk said. After three years as the captain, he’d gotten used to the idea that he didn’t always have all the information. However, he’d grown to trust Spock and the rest of his senior staff to tell him what he needed to know.

 

“A Federation agent working on the planet has identified a middleman who may be willing to bend the Syndicate rules if appropriate compensation can be negotiated,” Spock explained.

 

“I can negotiate,” Kirk said gleefully. 

 

“If this syndicate is as twitchy as you say, won’t they get a wee bit suspicious at an enormous Federation starship showing up in orbit?” Scotty asked. 

 

“Lieutenant Sulu?” Spock prompted.

 

“Working with the tactical team—.” Even after a year, Kirk didn’t think he’d ever heard Sulu use Lieutenant Kelso’s name. “We’ve determined that we can come as close as Salyut, the system’s fifth planet. If we hold position, there’s minimal chance of being detected.”

 

“That’s beyond the range of our transporters to move an away team, Captain,” Scotty piped up.

 

“The captain, myself, and Doctor McCoy will take a shuttlecraft to reach Bussar,” Spock said.

 

McCoy jerked upright in his chair. “Me? Shuttlecraft? I…”

 

“Don’t worry, Bones,” Kirk said. “I’ll drive.”

 

“If we succeed in acquiring the slaves,” Spock said, “Some may need medical attention before it is safe to move them off world.”

 

“Right,” McCoy said glumly. 

 

“We will require a member of the away team to stay behind in the capital city, Buran, with the bargaining money while I accompany the captain to negotiations,” Spock said. “However, I am not certain that Doctor McCoy’s keeping a large amount of local currency on his person is advisable. Given the turbulent nature of Bussar’s economic--.”

 

“It’ll be okay, Spock,” Kirk cut in. “Bones looks grumpy enough that no one will bother him, but so clean-cut he couldn’t belong to one of the petty gangs. They’ll leave him alone.”

 

“Besides, I’m not going to be waving money around like a madman,” McCoy said.

 

“What is the currency down there? Latinum?” Kirk asked.

 

Trenach, the intelligence officer, interjected hastily. “The dinar. Traded in paper.” He looked slightly put out, as if he wasn’t quite sure how Kirk’s officers had so smoothly taken control of his briefing.

 

“And if you two can manage to do your jobs right, I shouldn’t even have to touch it. You signal, I bring you the money, and the deal goes off without a hitch. That sounds likely,” McCoy muttered. “Is there some reason why I should have to wander around an alien capital all alone?” He looked around the table. “Sulu, you have some other engagement tomorrow?”

 

“Lieutenant Sulu wouldn’t pass as a Bussarian,” Uhura broke in. “There are humans from other worlds in Buran, but you’ll be less conspicuous if you can pass for one of the locals.”

 

“Lieutenant Uhura has prepared a primer on cultural traditions of Bussar with a focus on the trading conditions and culture in Buran,” Spock said. “It’s been sent to your padds. You may even want to consider reading it, Captain.”

 

Kirk folded his hands on the table in front of him and put on his best serious face. “I will take that under advisement.”  
\--

 

Kirk laughed when McCoy entered the main shuttle bay. “You look like a fop,” he said.

 

“I refused to wear the hat,” McCoy grumbled. Uhura had outdone herself in advising the quartermaster on a culturally appropriate outfit to help Bones pass as a local. Tight breeches disappeared into calf-high boots, and a belted tunic completed the picture. His medical kit, disguised as a satchel, was slung over his shoulder.

 

“Where are you keeping the money?”

 

McCoy gestured to the various pockets sewn into the tunic. “Around,” he said darkly. “You look like a space pirate.”

 

Kirk adjusted his dark shirt, which was made of some soft, heavy material, and cut halfway down the chest. From underneath billowed a white shirt that could possibly be described as ruffley, but that Kirk preferred to think of as manfully rumpled. Voluminous bloomers and a red sash completed the ensemble. “Spock and I are rich off-world traders. Right, Spock?”

 

The first officer looked up from where he was performing a final check of the shuttle’s launch system. His eyes flicked up to the red-patterned cloth wrapped around his head, and then back at Kirk. “Quite, sir.”

 

Scotty came bustling in with a small box in his hands and a harried look on his face. “Good. You’re still here. I brought you a little something you might find helpful.”

 

He flipped up the top on the box to reveal a handful of small flat disks the color of copper, engraved with some sort of symbol.

 

“Uh… Thanks?” Kirk said tentatively. 

 

“They’re disguised as Bussarian coins,” Scotty said animatedly. “Not worth much in local currency, but I’ve put a little something inside.” He picked up one of the faux coins and waved it at Kirk. “This transmits a subspace signal constantly. Much greater range than your average communicator. You won’t be able to send messages, but the signal itself has its uses.”

 

“Like what?” Kirk asked. 

 

“Like we know it’s still working,” Scotty said. His eyes sparkled with the kind of excitement that made Kirk both eager and nervous. “If you need us to come get you, just stop it transmitting, and we’ll take it as a distress call.”

 

“Fascinating,” said Spock. He picked up one of the coins and held it up. “How does one stop the transmission?”

 

“Break it.” Scotty passed the box off to McCoy, grasped his coin in two hands, and squeezed, snapping the disk in half. “See?”

 

Kirk smiled. “That’s my kind of transmitter.”

 

“I thought you’d like that, Captain.”  
\--

 

McCoy had scraped together enough willpower to refrain from bring a flask with him for the shuttle trip to Bussar. Jim was a highly competent pilot, after all, and with Spock in the co-pilot seat, McCoy was in the best possible hands. Still, he strapped himself in and kept his eyes closed for the duration, listening to Kirk and Spock discuss the backstory they’d be feeding their contact. 

 

They set the shuttle down without incident in a clearing in the woods outside of the city of Buran, and McCoy rushed outside to stand on solid ground and reassure himself that he’d survived another fate-tempting trip in a machine designed to raise his blood pressure and shorten his life span. 

 

“Told you, Bones,” Kirk said, and gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Went off without a hitch.”

 

“As do most of your plans, Captain,” Spock said evenly, and pulled out his tricorder to scan their surroundings. 

 

“Ha ha,” Kirk said. “We’ll walk together as far as the main road. Then Spock and I will go to meet our contact. The rendezvous place is a villa just outside of the city, so it shouldn’t be difficult to get to once we call for you,” he told McCoy.

 

“I would suggest securing lodgings inside the city in case our negotiations take longer than anticipated,” Spock said. “Also, you may wish to rest after your walk to the city. This area is very hilly, and you are not used to these warmer temperatures.”

 

“I’m sure it will be a lovely vacation,” McCoy said darkly. “In a city crawling with slave traders.”

 

“Any information about the slave trade as it is practiced inside the city may also be useful to our investigation.”

 

“But be careful, Bones,” Kirk said, throwing a hand over McCoy’s shoulder as they headed toward the road. “I mean it. Don’t try anything stupid until we’re there to watch your back.”

 

McCoy muttered, “Same to you.”  
\--

 

Bones hadn’t exactly intended to go to the slave bazaar. In fact, he was fairly certain that he’d meant to avoid direct contact with slaves and slavers. However, after he’d arrived in town sweating and exhausted from what was not exactly the “short distance” Kirk had promised, he wanted nothing more than to lay down somewhere out of this heat and sleep until Kirk and Spock created a crisis. A helpful local had pointed him down this street when he’d asked about lodgings, and the colorful tents and crowds of people had drawn him into the square to look for somewhere to get a damn drink, expecting a market or perhaps a carnival. 

 

The slave bazaar was a little of both. Men and women of dozens of different species milled around the plaza. McCoy first noticed a young Deltan woman with a metal collar tight around her throat: a slave. She passed quickly, scampering in the wake of a taller Deltan who might have been her owner. After that, McCoy began to notice slaves throughout the square, their deferential manners marking them as well as their collars. At one end of the square, a dense crowd surrounded a raised dais where a man stood shouting and gesturing grandly. When McCoy drew closer, he could hear what was happening: an auction. 

 

McCoy turned away and went to stand at the edge of the plaza, where the crowd was sparse. The Enterprise had encountered slave-owning societies before in their travels, but never had McCoy been so close to the actual beings engaging in the slave trade. He hadn’t exactly slept through that Starfleet flunky’s briefing, but he hadn’t prepared himself for the reality of life on Bussar. He should really walk away and find a room as he’d intended, but if he stayed to observe, just for a few minutes, he might have something to contribute to the mission.

 

McCoy steadied himself against the wall bordering the plaza and turned back to watch the bustling activity of the bazaar. Owners went about their business casually, stopping to buy food from vendors’ tents set up along the perimeter, talking in small groups while their slaves stood by obediently, or pressing in closer to the stage to watch the auction. Off to the side of the plaza, McCoy could distantly see a pen full of slaves, presumably those being prepared for sale. If those poor bastards had to be sold like cattle, the least McCoy could do was stick around and see if he could learn anything useful. He held no illusions of being above these sorts of atrocities. Earth’s history wasn’t exactly all sweetness and light. In fact, the land McCoy grew up on had been farmed by slaves hundreds of years ago. Any advanced race who’d come upon Earth in those days would have judged them harshly, he reminded himself. He wasn’t here to judge, but to help. 

 

He took one last steadying breath of dusty, heated air, and then set off through the crowd, heading up to get a better view of the auction. Bidders were packed in ten or twenty deep at the edge of the stage, all watching the action intently as the auctioneer put a slave through his paces. McCoy was content to stand at the back of the mob, and he didn’t watch the stage. He watched the bidders instead. 

 

A broad-shouldered Andorian pushed through the crowd, sending the collared and manacled humanoid slave in front of Bones stumbling into the tall Romulan to his right. The Romulan immediately struck the unfortunate slave a backhand blow, sending her to her knees. A white eyed Whirian, evidently the owner, turned around and grabbed his slave by the collar. He bared his teeth at the Romulan, who went back to watching the auction with a half-hearted snarl. Such jostling and posturing was going on all over the sweaty, seething crowd. McCoy took a step back, trying to clear the radius of an unpleasant smell drifting from somewhere nearby, and found that more spectators had come up behind him, putting him near the middle of the crowd. 

 

The muscle-bound handlers led to the stage a Denobulan woman with long, dark hair flowing free over her naked back. McCoy was happily too far away to read the expression on her face, but he did notice how she flinched away every time the guard at the corner of the stage stroked the whip that hung at his belt. The auctioneer tapped the woman on the shoulder to make her turn around. “Bidding starts at ninety denari.” 

 

McCoy didn’t watch the rest. He maneuvered his way through the crowd over to the far edge of the stage, where the slaves waiting to be sold stood in a dirt-floored pen. The slaves represented a rainbow variety of lifeforms, including some McCoy couldn’t identify. Every one of them, male, female, and indeterminate gender, kept his or her eyes fixed on the ground. Some were dressed roughly, some richly, and some had little or no clothing. Collars adorned the neck of each slave: every style from old-fashioned leather to plain metal to elaborate poly-synthetic rings that seemed to be outfitted with a simple set of controls that did who-knows-what. There were a handful of humans in the pen, mixed in among the others. McCoy stole a glance at the nearest one, a tall, sturdy young woman. An array of thin, pink scars criss-crossed her back, and other marks gave testament to hard use. McCoy noted the awkward bend of two of the woman’s fingers where the bones had been broken and improperly set: a careless mistake, and one that would have been easily remedied in civilized society. There were certainly no older slaves in this lot; if all slaves were afforded as little care as this one had been given, it was no wonder they died young. 

 

The ranks of slaves stirred and recoiled as one of the auction guards, in a dark blue uniform, waded into the pen to grab hold of another slave to take to the block. The slaves shied away from him, and he grabbed the first one he could catch hold of: a pale human, a young man with curly hair. McCoy had to turn away or risk being sick, because those ridiculous brown curls reminded him too much of the crewmate he’d lost. The guard snarled something that sounded like a curse. A chorus of outraged shouts and grunts rose from the crowd of slaves, and a body hit the dust hard a few feet away from McCoy, just inside the fence.

 

He had to look, just to see what the commotion was about. The human had fallen, or been pushed, more likely, to the ground, and landed on his hands and knees. When the slave looked up, only the thin bars of the fence separated them, and the barrier was not enough to keep McCoy from recognizing a face he’d seen in dreams and nightmares for over a year. “Chekov?”

 

He was paler than McCoy remembered, and skinnier, too. His collar, a gray synthetic polymer choker, looked too heavy for his thin frame. His chest was bare, and he wore loose-fitting pants that looked like they’d once been made of fine, soft material, but were now ripped and dirty. He stared up at McCoy, mouth parted slightly, unblinking. 

 

“Get up, slave,” the guard snapped. 

 

Ignoring McCoy, Chekov scrambled to his feet and did not resist as the guard dragged him out of the pen. 

 

McCoy stood staring after them until Chekov disappeared behind the stage.  
\--

 

McCoy shoved through the crowd, heedless of protests and threats as he pushed aside other buyers. He elbowed his way to the front of the line at one of the tables were blue-uniformed officials issued bidder numbers. The Rigelian who’d been next in line opened his mouth to protest, but what he saw in McCoy’s eyes sent him shrinking back. 

 

“I need a number,” McCoy announced.

 

The uniformed Bussarian blinked up at him indifferently. “I’ll need your holder’s permit and your identification papers.” 

 

McCoy glanced back at the stage, where the Denobulan woman was being led away. McCoy, in desperation, tried to imagine what Jim Kirk would do in this situation. He grabbed a handful of bills from one of the multiple pockets in his local get-up, and he slid the flimsy paper bills across the table. “I believe this is all in order.”

 

Without batting an eyelash, the Bussarian picked up the stack of currency. “Thank you, Mister Annidar. 422 is your number.” He pocketed all but one of the bills, and passed McCoy a polysynth disk. “Happy bidding.”

 

McCoy snatched up his marker and shoved his way back into the crowd gathered around the platform. 

 

The guard was just shoving Chekov into place at the front of the stage. The auctioneer, a Bussarian with a wide smile full of teeth like a Kryonian tiger, ruffled Chekov’s hair affectionately. Chekov bore it silently, standing still with his hands at his sides and his eyes downcast. The auctioneer turned his grin out to the crowd, and his gravely shout rose about the chatter. “What do I hear for this little treasure? Shall we start the bidding at two hundred?”

 

McCoy held up his disk. Its internal transmitter hit the sensor net that spread over the auction area, and the net above him lit up with a flash, displaying his number. 

 

“Two hundred denari to the gentleman in the back. Do I hear two fifty?”

 

McCoy’s heart pounded so fast he feared a tachycardic episode. He could barely hear the auctioneer over the roaring in his ears. Each time the sensor net lit up over another bidder, McCoy thrust his marker in the air. He knew from old-fashioned cattle auctions attended with his granddaddy back on Earth that strategy was more important than speed at an auction, but McCoy couldn’t concern himself with the intricacies of bidding strategy right now. He had enough money on him to pay for the whole shipment of slaves Jim and Spock hoped to buy. He could pay whatever it took to get Chekov back. 

 

“Eleven hundred denari,” the auctioneer crowed. “This one’s quite a prize, friends, and these gentlemen know it. Will you let this little gem slip away so cheaply?”

 

From the front of the crowd, another marker lit up the grid, and the spectators cheered as if they’d seen something particularly sporting. McCoy raised his marker again immediately, and the crowd roared anew. 

 

McCoy couldn’t see who he was bidding against. He couldn’t see the faces in the crowd around him, turning back to observe the thrill of competition. He couldn’t see the auctioneer, gesturing grandly with each new bid. He could only see Chekov. At this distance he was little more than a silhouette against the dark backdrop of the stage, but he was there, and he was counting on McCoy. 

 

“Two thousand, six hundred denari! Now this is a contest, my friends. Are we finished at last? Going. Going… Sold to number four twenty-two for two thousand, six hundred denari. Thank you, sir.”

 

The crowd clapped, McCoy lowered his marker, and the guard shoved Chekov toward the side of the stage and down the stairs.  
\--

 

More blue-uniformed officials sat at the tables outside the enclosure for slaves who had already been sold, collecting the price and signing over elaborate paperwork McCoy didn’t understand. He spent the interminable moments of waiting in line simply staring into the pen where Chekov stood looking intently at the ground. When McCoy made it to the front of the line, he shoved a stack of bills across the table and made a mark where the harried official asked him to. 

 

“Slave’s health not guaranteed, use at your own risk,” the official rattled off. “No refunds or exchanges. Liability for the slave’s actions reverts to you.” She scanned the paper McCoy had signed with a handheld device and signaled to the guard at her side. 

 

McCoy stood impatiently while the guard stepped into the slave pen, grabbed Chekov by the arm, checked the number on his collar, and dragged him out to the table. The official stood and pointed her handheld device at the collar, and the device beeped twice. “He’s all yours. Enjoy your purchase.” 

 

The guard shoved Chekov toward McCoy none too gently. Chekov stumbled but kept his eyes downcast. McCoy took Chekov gently by the arm and steered him away from the tables of uniformed officials. Even when he had Chekov there with him, right beside him, he could barely believe he wasn’t dreaming. He guided Chekov through the crowd and down the nearest side street that wasn’t bustling with traffic. 

 

As soon as they were relatively out of sight, McCoy drew Chekov against the wall of one of the buildings lining the street and began looking him over for injuries. “Damnit, kid, it’s good to see you. Are you hurt? It looked like those barbarians were pretty rough with their toys.” He ran a finger appraisingly over a thin pink scar slashed across Chekov’s ribs. Chekov stood passively against the wall, eyes directed down. He submitted patiently to McCoy’s prodding, but said nothing. “You injured?” McCoy couldn’t see any blood, but looking down he did notice for the first time that Chekov was barefoot. His feet were filthy, and McCoy didn’t want to imagine all the unsanitary and dangerous things he could be picking up walking around this cesspool. “We’ll get you some shoes. A shirt, too. What else do you need?”

 

Chekov still hadn’t looked at him, and the non-response was starting to make McCoy nervous. He threw a look around the street, but none of the handful of people passing by seemed to be paying them the least attention. “It’s okay,” McCoy said, clasping Chekov’s shoulder reassuringly. “I’ve got you. You’re going to be all right.”

 

When Chekov still didn’t respond, McCoy put a finger under Chekov’s chin and gently tipped up his head. Chekov complied, but he kept his eyes averted, focused somewhere over McCoy’s shoulder. 

 

“It’s okay. It’s McCoy. You’re safe.”

 

Still no response, but he could feel Chekov shaking under his hand.

 

“Chekov. Kid. Look at me.”

 

At last, Chekov dragged his eyes over to McCoy and really looked at him. 

 

“I’m Doctor McCoy. Leonard McCoy of the starship Enterprise. Do you know who I am?”

 

Chekov shook his head slowly. 

 

“Oh hell.”


	3. We Have Loved the Stars Too Fondly to be Fearful of the Night - Part 2b

This new master hadn’t hit Pasha yet. In fact, he’d barely touched him. But instead of letting Pasha walk behind him, this man—McCoy, he’d called himself—held tight to Pasha’s wrist, dragging him along like an errant child. He’d be a fool to do anything but follow his new master; out here in the lower city he’d be a chicken among wolves with no owner to protect him. Yet McCoy was treating Pasha like he expected him to run off at any moment. His cheeks burned with humiliation as they made their way down Buran’s streets. Pasha suffered the scornful looks of other slaves in silence. He wondered what he’d done to displease his new master, and what punishment awaited him at their destination.

 

They passed through several smaller squares where regular markets sold things other than flesh. In one of these, a shabby place on the east side of the city where Pasha had never been, McCoy stopped short in front of a clothier. He glanced at Pasha out of the corner of his eye before dragging him into the tent despite the orange flag on the tent flap indicating that slaves weren’t welcome.

 

Inside, the proprietor glared at them both, but McCoy ignored him in favor of pointing out a pair of sandals and a lightweight yellow shirt of a cut more suited to a student than a slave. He shoved a handful of bills at the man behind the counter, far more than the clothes could possibly cost. The vendor’s scowl disappeared. He snatched the money and handed over McCoy’s purchases.

 

McCoy passed Pasha the items and waved a hand demonstrably. “Put ‘em on.”

 

Evidently McCoy’s money kept the incredulous shopkeeper from commenting, but not from leering as Pasha obediently pulled the shirt over his head. Though he was puzzled why his master would want him to dress this way, he was thankful for the tunic’s fine, breathable fabric in this oppressive heat. Pasha hesitated a moment before kneeling down to put on the sandals. They were made of some kind of tanned leather, far too fine for Pasha to deserve, and he was loathe to put them on when his feet were already stained with mud, lest he dirty his master’s gift. But McCoy stood there looking at him and gave no further direction, so Pasha strapped on the sandals, which would at least keep his feet from injury in the city streets, and stood.

 

“Better.” McCoy nodded his satisfaction.

 

Pasha began to drop to his knees to express his proper gratitude, but McCoy was already moving out of the tent, and he caught Pasha’s hand to pull him along.  
\--

 

Chekov still hadn’t spoken a word, and McCoy had enough faith in the kid’s genius to believe he was keeping quiet for a reason. Maybe this was all an elaborate ruse, and Chekov was only pretending not to recognize him. Probably as soon as they were off the street and alone, Chekov would start with mile-a-minute theories and explanations McCoy wouldn’t be able to follow, and McCoy would be back to wishing he’d shut up. At worst, Chekov’s confusion could be the result of post-traumatic stress. From what little McCoy had seen of Bussarian slave practices, Chekov could not have been treated well. McCoy held no illusions about what duties slaves were required to perform for their masters.

 

McCoy steered them into the first establishment he found whose holo-sign proclaimed that it provided lodging and food. Inside, icy-cold air blasted from the environmental controls. McCoy wiped his sleeve across his face to sop up his sweat, but he was sure he was still filthy and dusty, and he knew Chekov looked like a ragamuffin. Tables stood neatly spaced around the open common room, and McCoy marched Chekov over to one in the corner. He needed to sit and think without the noise and crowd and heat of the city sneaking up on him, and he might as well get the kid some food while he did so. He dropped into a high-backed seat.

 

To his surprise, Chekov slid to his knees on the floor next to the table, and folded his hands neatly in his lap.

 

“Get up,” McCoy said immediately. “Sit in the chair. You’re not a damn dog.”

 

Chekov froze, but when McCoy said, “Up,” again, he got up and slid into the chair across from McCoy, curling up on himself as if he wanted to disappear.

 

McCoy glanced around the room to see other slaves sitting or kneeling at their masters’ feet, and realized his mistake. He couldn’t order Chekov back down to the floor, though. For one thing, he didn’t want him there. Chekov was here, was _alive_ , and McCoy would be damned if he could see him hurt or humiliated now, even for a ruse.

 

A barmaid approached cautiously with a data pad and a stylus, peering curiously at the two of them. “May I help you, sir?”

 

“Yeah, you have soup?”

 

“Yes sir.” The woman stared openly at Chekov, who seemed to scrunch further into his chair.

 

“Two, then. That’s all.”

 

Her eyes widened even more, but she made a mark on her data pad. “Yes sir,” she said slowly, gave Chekov one more appraising look, and wandered away shaking her head.

 

McCoy leaned forward over the table and lowered his voice. “Chekov.” The slaves here must have had a taboo against eye contact, because although Chekov raised his head to show he was listening, he didn’t look directly at McCoy. “You know that’s your name, right? Do they call you Chekov?”

 

Chekov shook his head.

 

“What do they call you?”

 

Chekov opened his mouth as if to reply, but instead bit his bottom lip and dropped his head again. McCoy wondered, for one horrible moment, if this kid wasn’t Chekov. If he’d wanted so badly to see his crewmate again that he’d tricked himself into seeing his friend in the face of a stranger. “Look at me.”

 

Chekov looked at him reluctantly, and McCoy let out the breath he’d been holding. This was Chekov, without a doubt. The wide blue eyes that watched him cautiously from a sharply intelligent face confirmed it. McCoy was no stranger to denial, but he wasn’t capable of fooling himself that far.

 

“McCoy,” he said, putting his hand on his chest. “I’m McCoy. Kirk and Spock are here somewhere too. You remember them? What about Sulu. You remember Sulu?

 

Chekov shook his head again. He seemed pained not to be able to give McCoy the answer he wanted.

 

The barmaid brought two bowls and set them both in front of McCoy. She set a spoon carefully by each one. “Will that be all, sir?”

 

“Yes. Thank you.”

 

McCoy slid a bowl of soup and a spoon across the table to Chekov, and said, “Eat.”  
\---

 

Pasha took the bowl politely and ate under McCoy’s watchful eye, but he could take no pleasure in the soup. Food was never simple. Many masters used food as a reward, others as a punishment. Some had wanted him to gain weight, to augment the boyish roundness of his features, while others had thought that skeletal thinness enhanced his beauty. One master had laced his foods with drugs when the mood suited her: an aphrodisiac to make him writhe with need, a hallucinogen to confuse his mind, or even mild poison to punish him for failures real or imagined.

 

Pasha dutifully ate the whole bowl, which had turned out to be some sort of vegetable broth. He watched McCoy surreptitiously, but the man seemed concentrated on his own meal, muttering to himself and shaking his head between spoonfuls. Out of the corner of his eye, he kept track of the people eating in the common room. Some of the slaves watched him with pity, others with envy, but they all noticed him, this scrawny, unwashed slave sitting at a table with his well-dressed master as if he were an equal.

 

Pasha paced himself to finish at roughly the same time as McCoy. He folded his hands carefully in his lap and waited for further orders. He wished he could think of something to do for his master that would show his willingness to serve, but McCoy hadn’t seemed pleased by any of his efforts so far. It was safer to wait until he knew more about his master’s desires before he attempted to take the initiative.

 

“You’re underweight,” McCoy said. He looked at Pasha again, that appraising kind of glance, like some sellers or trainers did, sizing up how much he could fetch at auction. “We’ll have to feed you more.”

 

Pasha couldn’t tell if he was expected to respond to that, so he did nothing.

 

McCoy sighed and stood up. He pulled a thick wallet out of a pocket in his tunic. The bills he left on the table could have covered ten meals such as the one they’d consumed, but he didn’t blink twice. Perhaps McCoy was extremely wealthy—certainly a possibility, considering what he’d paid for Pasha today—or perhaps he wanted to give Pasha the impression early on that material things were disposable to him. He’d learned that lesson from other masters: Pasha was a possession to be given or traded away as his owners desired, and it would be unwise to forget his place.

 

“Come on.” McCoy took Pasha by the arm again and led him to the front of the inn. He wondered anew what had so damaged his master’s opinion of him that he felt the need to keep Pasha tethered to him at all times. Evaluating his behavior since leaving the market, Pasha couldn’t identify anything he’d done wrong, but he resolved to behave better, more correctly, from now on, if only he could determine exactly what behavior this new master required.

 

In the office of the manager, McCoy threw down another stack of bills—again, enough to buy ten rooms—without taking his hand off Chekov. “We need a room.”

 

The innkeeper looked up from his desk with an obsequious, oily smile. “Certainly, sir. I’ll have them prepare our best accommodations.” He pressed a few buttons on the display screen built into his desk. When he looked up again, he cast a sympathetic look at McCoy.

 

“Does your slave require a disciplinary session? Our facilities have excellent trainers, if you’d like to lodge him there for the night.”

 

A bolt of panic shot through Pasha before McCoy said, “That won’t be necessary.”

 

That was probably a good sign. If his master planned to punish him, he wanted to do it personally. That meant he had an interest in his acquisition. However, Pasha was having difficulty imagining what type of owner McCoy was. Before the auction, each of Pasha’s masters had been progressively more harsh and demanding. McCoy, however, had not hurt him yet. He’d barely spoken to him since the initial interview at the bazaar, and he seemed to show little direct interest in Pasha other than to ascertain the state of his health. For the first time, it occurred to Pasha the McCoy may not have purchased him for his own use.

 

He considered the idea as McCoy led him upstairs to their room. Even if McCoy had acquired him for a business—a club or even a brothel—he would want to sample the goods, and he’d made no move to do so. Perhaps he’d bought Pasha as a present. Though, again, it seemed strange that McCoy wouldn’t test his quality. Or… There may be another master. McCoy was obviously not a slave himself—his confident deportment showed that fact more clearly even than the lack of a collar—but he could serve another master. That would explain why he was so free with money; the wealth was not his own. Perhaps he was an advisor or an agent for a powerful prince, a rich trader, or a high-ranking military official. Such a master would not want his subordinate tampering with his property.

 

As McCoy closed and locked the door to their shared room, Pasha fought down a swell of panic. Men powerful, influential, or wealthy enough to command a man as proud as McCoy were never kind to their slaves. Pasha had met cast-offs from the royal harems at the auction; those slaves’ lives had not been easy. He’d also heard whispered stories told by his fellows, huddling together in the cold and dark, of slaves who’d fallen out of favor with their officer masters and been passed around the army camps until the soldiers’ lust for their bodies turned to lust for blood. But here was McCoy, as decent a free man as Pasha had ever encountered. If Pasha could only show McCoy how good he could be, perhaps McCoy would deliver another to his master. He hadn’t seen McCoy send any sort of communication since they’d left the fairgrounds. There was probably still time to convince McCoy of his value.  
\--

 

McCoy had actually read the report Uhura had compiled on Bussarian customs. He’d scrolled through every page of the thing, and even dug of some of the reference material she’d recommended. But none of what he’d read had mentioned anything about appropriate practices for the care and feeding of personal slaves. He hoped his mistake in the common room hadn’t drawn too much attention, but he was more concerned about keeping Chekov safe and calm than in pandering to barbaric local customs.

 

The innkeeper had provided a sumptuous room. McCoy had no idea how much the room was worth, or how much he’d spent on it. Non-standard currency always confounded him, but he must have put down enough to earn them the nicest room in this unassuming dump. There was a square table, a chair, a settee upholstered in a garish green, a large bed piled high with pillows, and a door that presumably led to a bathroom. A single narrow window looked out on the street below.

 

Chekov followed McCoy into the room and stood with his hands at his sides, eyes downcast. Probably McCoy should talk to him, explain that everything was going to be okay, and he had nothing to fear from McCoy, that he would do no harm. However, looking at Chekov standing in the room with him, incredibly alive but undeniably damaged, he couldn’t formulate an explanation for what was happening. He couldn’t explain, but there were other things he could do.

 

“Come here,” he said. He tossed his pack on the bed and dug out his tricorder. “Let me have a look at you.” When he turned around, Chekov had somehow silently navigated across the room to appear just inches away. “Damnit!”

 

Chekov flinched, but didn’t move away.

 

“Sorry. Just didn’t expect… Never mind.” He pointed his tricorder at Chekov, but tore his eyes away from the readings to watch Chekov’s reaction to the tool; he stood frozen and had his eyes fixed on the thing as if it might bite. McCoy had to remind himself that, considering what he’d just seen at the auction, the man before him had good reason to suspect that McCoy intended him harm. “It’s not a weapon,” McCoy said. “I want to see if you’re hurt. This thing’s not as powerful as a real medical scanner, but it can do the basics.”

 

The readings seemed to agree with McCoy’s initial impression: that Chekov was undernourished and had several minor bruises and abrasions. Thankfully there didn’t seem to be any more serious damage: no internal bleeding, nothing broken that the tricorder could detect.

 

“Are you in pain?” McCoy asked. “You can tell me if you are.”

 

Chekov shook his head silently. That wasn’t a good enough answer. After what McCoy had seen at that damn auction, he found it hard to believe Chekov had come out unscathed. “Chekov? It’s all right. Tell me.”

 

Chekov raised his head, and McCoy saw eyes filled with rabbit panic. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He licked his lips and tried again, but all that came out was a sort of raspy squeak.

 

McCoy’s frown resolved into understanding. “You can’t speak,” he said slowly.

 

Chekov nodded reluctantly.

 

“Well curse me for a damn fool,” McCoy muttered. He’d been so preoccupied that he hadn’t even noticed being given non-verbal answers. “Are you injured? Has this been going on long?” He lifted his tricorder again and scanned Chekov’s neck as Chekov watched him uneasily. The readouts told him nothing new. Finally McCoy lowered the tricorder. “At least tell me if it hurts.”

 

Chekov shook his head no.

 

That would have to be good enough for now. McCoy considered doing a more traditional exam, but decided that he didn’t want to subject Chekov to any more poking and prodding just now. Once they got back to the Enterprise, he could do a full brain scan and figure out what was wrong with the kid’s voice, but for now, he’d have to be content in knowing that Chekov wasn’t bleeding internally.

 

McCoy tucked the tricorder back in his bag and stood evaluating his next step. “We should get this off.” He reached out to brush his fingers against the front of Chekov’s collar. Chekov glanced up in wide-eyed alarm, realized he’d made eye contact, and quickly dropped his eyes to the floor again. “I’m not going to hurt you,” McCoy said, then added under his breath, “Not that you’d believe me.”

 

He examined the collar, which fit snugly around Chekov’s throat, but there seemed to be no clasp. Somewhere inside the collar had to be a chip that stored information about Chekov’s provenance, but McCoy couldn’t see any mark or indication along the smooth surface of the collar. As McCoy looked at the collar, Chekov stood stiff and unmoving, and stared resolutely into middle distance. At last, McCoy had to admit defeat. “Wait until we get back to the ship,” he said. “We’ll find a way to break that thing.” He gave Chekov’s shoulder a friendly squeeze, but the kid did not look reassured.

 

McCoy quickly took his hand away and gave the kid a quick look over. Now that he knew Chekov wasn’t injured, his eyes caught on other things: the dirty feet, the hands clenched tensely at his sides. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said.

 

The bathroom held a water basin and towels, plus a few soaps and other supplies McCoy didn’t immediately recognize. Chekov hovered in the doorway to the bathroom until McCoy motioned him in. “Wash up here. If anything hurts that you want me to look at, or anything bleeds, you tell me, and I’ll fix it. Understand?” Chekov nodded. McCoy went to the door, but turned back to be certain he’d made himself clear. “Put your clothes back on when you’re done.”

 

Chekov nodded again, more slowly this time.  
\--

 

Once his master left him alone, Pasha undressed carefully, taking stock of himself, of the body his master had purchased. He hadn’t been beaten in several days, because fresh wounds and bruises would have brought down his price at the auction, but old scars and fading marks still marred his skin. He hadn’t washed in longer than he cared to think about. His feet were caked with dirt, and some blood, from milling around in the common pens and muddy streets.

 

A cloth hanging from a bar and a furtive splash of water from the basin helped Pasha wipe off the worst of the sweat and grime from his body. He washed his face first, then tried to scrub away the dirt at his feet. At last, reluctantly, he pressed the damp cloth between his legs and hissed in discomfort. The guards who’d used him at the bazaar had left him sore, but Pasha washed himself thoroughly anyway. McCoy seemed to be a very refined gentleman, and he would certainly look unkindly upon a reminder that his new property had recently been used by others.

 

His instructions were to re-dress himself, so he pulled his much-abused pants back on along with the shirt and sandals his master had purchased for him. He went for the door, not wanting to keep his master waiting, but stopped with his fingers at the handle. Since McCoy finally had left him alone after guarding him so closely, Pasha didn’t know when he’d have another chance to prepare a plan to make an impression on his new master. McCoy had already said something about a ship, so Pasha suspected he’d be taken off world soon to be brought to whoever McCoy had purchased him for. He had little time, so he would have to take a risk if he expected McCoy to want to keep him.

 

On a shelf above the sink, Pasha found what he was looking for: a small, unlabeled jar of oil. He’d traveled with former masters, and found that many lodgings provided these sorts of amenities for their patrons. Pasha only hoped that McCoy wouldn’t think him presumptuous for wanting to make their coupling easier. In the balance between demonstrating his eagerness and maintaining his deference, Pasha decided that boldness must win out this time.  
\--

 

McCoy checked the door, which locked with the key the innkeeper had given him, and the window, which was barred, until he was certain Chekov wouldn’t be running away on him. After that he had nothing to do except sit in the room’s only chair, listening to the muffled sounds of Chekov going about his business and wondering how he could fix all this.

 

After only a few minutes, Chekov emerged from the bathroom, cleanly scrubbed and fully dressed but still silent. He stood just inside the room and looked down. Waiting for orders.

 

McCoy didn’t know how to explain to Chekov that he didn’t need to act like a slave, that he in fact was _not_ a slave. But if Chekov really didn’t remember who he was, McCoy would only frighten and confuse him. And McCoy couldn’t bear to see fear in those wide eyes and know he’d been the cause. Finally, he said, “Look, there’s only one bed.”

 

Chekov didn’t respond. McCoy hated feeling like he was talking to a stranger. Chekov was a friend and a crewmate, but he shied away from McCoy as if he were an enemy. McCoy gestured from Chekov to the bed. He was beginning to wonder if the kid actually understood Standard. “You need it more than I do. Don’t think I’ll be able to sleep anyway.”

 

Chekov shook his head frantically and scrambled over to the mat on the floor by the window. He knelt there and bowed his head. So that’s where slaves were meant to spend their nights, presumably if they weren’t warming their master’s bed.

 

“Yeah, maybe that’s what you’re used to, but you really don’t have to…” McCoy thought for a moment about how to convey to Chekov that he could sleep in the bed without fear of McCoy assaulting him, and came up blank as to how to explain that, much less make Chekov believe it. The exhaustion of the day, the stress of the auction, and the horror of what had been done to Chekov caught up with him in a rush, and McCoy wanted nothing more than for this day to be over. Even if he had to wake up and deal with the same problems the next morning, a few hours of sleep would give him fresh perspective on what to do with this stranger who wasn’t his crewmate. “Fine. Sleep wherever you want.”

 

Chekov stayed where he was on the mat, and McCoy chose to take that as agreement. He pried off his boots and tossed them down to the end of the bed. Scotty’s signal coin he set on the nightstand where he could grab it in an emergency. McCoy’s med kit and phaser went under the bed, within easy distance to grab. McCoy sat on the edge of the bed, wondering what exactly he would do with Chekov tomorrow if Kirk and Spock hadn’t finished negotiating. He could run a few tests with the basic equipment he had, but clearly there was something very wrong with the kid. He needed the capabilities of Enterprise’s sickbay to tell him more. Still, he had to weigh the urgency of getting help for Chekov against the trade-off of letting Spock and Kirk complete their mission. If McCoy called for the Enterprise now, the plan would be ruined, and there’d be no chance to rescue any of the other slaves who’d been in the bazaar today. McCoy left the signal coin where it lay. Chekov was relatively safe now, at least, and tomorrow, McCoy could try to figure out more.

 

McCoy glanced over at the mat where Chekov still knelt, still as a stone. “Go to sleep, Chekov,” he said wearily. “Lay down.” Slowly, Chekov unfolded himself into an approximation of a resting position, although he looked far from comfortable. McCoy glanced up at the window again, and at the locked door. “You still going to be here when I wake up?”

 

Chekov nodded solemnly.

 

McCoy flipped the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. He could still see Chekov’s eyes, wide-open and white in the dim city glow filtering in through the window. “Go to sleep,” McCoy sighed. He heaved himself onto the bed. He’d thought there was no chance of his falling asleep, but moments after he closed his eyes, he was out.  
\--

 

Pasha lay very still on the mat and listened to his master’s breathing. Pleased to have some time to think, Pasha tried to unravel his impressions of his master. McCoy seemed to know something about him. He’d certainly been displeased that Pasha hadn’t remembered him. Perhaps this man had seen him at a former master’s party. That wouldn’t explain why he’d had to buy him at the auction, instead of dealing directly with Pasha’s most recent master.

 

Pasha couldn’t tell for sure why he’d been sold at all, unless his master had uncovered some fault Pasha had been hiding. He had been punished for such a fault just last week. His master had owned a villa near the ocean on Bussar’s southern continent. He’d spent the week of summer solstice there, entertaining, and of course Pasha had gone along. In the early dawn hours, when his master and the guests had finally surrendered to exhaustion, Pasha ran barefoot in the soft sand and watched the stars until the rising sun blotted them from the sky. Three mornings he stole such freedom, but on the third the steward caught him coming in before breakfast, and had him whipped. Pasha hadn’t gone outside to stargaze since, but he suspected reports of his wandering had made his master nervous. A slave’s every thought should be of his master, so Pasha could understand why he’d been sold from the disloyalty of looking at the stars. He resolved not to give McCoy any such reason to doubt him.

 

After several minutes, McCoy’s breath became a slow, even whistle. Pasha pushed himself up to a sitting position and listened hard to see if McCoy had noticed. No move, no change from the man on the bed. So far so good.

 

Pasha set down the little jar he’d pocketed earlier and rose slowly to his feet, keeping his eyes trained on the bed at all times lest his new master should wake and suspect him of mischief. Apparently his master was tired from the day’s events, or perhaps he was always a heavy sleeper. Pasha filed that observation away for future use; one never knew when a tidbit about a master’s habits would prove useful.

 

Pasha stood still for several seconds, planning what he wanted to do. Someone had told him once, though he wasn’t sure who or when, that he must first plan his course before he rushed into danger. That method had served him well with previous masters. The plan forming in his mind this time brought him a small seed of pleasure. McCoy was a handsome man, and seemed gentle. If Pasha succeeded in proving his worth, he thought he could be content to serve this man as he hadn’t been for any other master. But first he must prove his worth.

 

Once he decided on a plan, he wasted no time. First he took off the new shirt master had bought for him. He folded it carefully and set it on table near the mat. Since McCoy had been so kind as to purchase something for him, he didn’t want to appear disrespectful of the gift. The new sandals he kicked off and placed under the table. He regarded his pants, which had been the only possession left to him, save the collar, of course, when he’d been taken to the auction. They hadn’t fared well in the dirty and crowded pens at the bazaar, and beside the new clothes they looked filthy. Chekov resolved to find a way to clean and repair them before he caused his master any embarrassment. He removed the pants, folded them, and set them on the floor next to the sandals.

 

Pasha sank back down to the floor and picked up the jar he’d taken from the bathroom. He hesitated once more over the appropriateness of using it before renewing his resolve: he had to show his master he was eager to please, and prepping himself thoroughly would certainly give that message. Pasha stretched out on his side on the mat, silently unscrewed the jar, and dipped his fingers inside.

 

He kept an eye on McCoy as he worked himself open. Earlier this evening McCoy had seemed to want to convey something about sleeping arrangements, but Pasha couldn’t fathom why a free man should sleep on a sofa or on the floor if a bed were available. McCoy had seemed frustrated at Pasha’s refusal to usurp the bed: yet another test he’d somehow failed.

 

At this, however, Pasha knew he excelled. He didn’t always enjoy his duties: masters who had liked seeing him hurt, or liked pushing the limits of what he could do. The thought of using his skills on McCoy, however, had Pasha panting and growing hard as he fingered himself. McCoy was the type of master he would beg to serve, if he had to.

 

When Pasha had prepared himself sufficiently, he crept over to the side of the large bed and crouched there. He watched McCoy carefully for several minutes, observing the pattern of his breathing. Pasha had spent hours upon hours watching his masters sleep. Some had allowed him to stay in their bed after his nighttime duties were done. He remembered one master in particular who, after hard sessions with a lash that left Pasha sweating and shaking, would bring Pasha to bed, hold him tightly, and stroke his hair until he fell asleep. Other masters hadn’t wanted him near, or hadn’t trusted him. One master had tied Pasha hand and foot to the bed, another had banished him to the slave barracks as soon as business was completed.

 

He watched intently until McCoy’s eyes began to move, not waking, but fluttering behind his eyelids. Pasha liked to think this meant a man was busy in his dreams. He’d worked out from experience that at such a time, most masters did not easily wake.

 

Luckily McCoy had settled on top of the sumptuous covers. Pasha slid deftly onto the bed and straddled McCoy’s waist. Against his bare skin, the rich material of McCoy’s breeches felt smooth and soft. Pasha trailed his knuckles gently over the swell between his master’s legs. McCoy muttered in his sleep, and his eyes flickered open sluggishly. A lighter sleeper than Pasha had suspected. Still, the plan remained the same.

 

Pasha slid his hand more firmly down McCoy’s covered length, rolled his hips forward, and leaned back to stretch out the lean curve of his naked body.

 

McCoy’s loud yelp startled Pasha. He looked up quickly, but McCoy shoved him backwards, hard, hands pushing frantically against his chest. Pasha’s legs caught ungracefully in the covers, and he tumbled to the floor.

 

“What in the name of Sam Hill?” McCoy scrambled out of bed and onto his feet.

 

Pasha recovered quickly. He lay back against the floor, spread his legs, and slid a hand between his them. To show McCoy how eager he was, he pushed in two fingers; slicked and stretched as he was, they went in easily. Pasha stayed focused on McCoy. Several times now his master had ordered eye contact, so he must have found it pleasing. He licked his lips invitingly, and willed the man to be interested in him.

 

McCoy charged him, and for a moment Pasha tasted victory. But when McCoy dropped to a crouch beside him, he snatched up Pasha’s hands and pressed them to the floor at his sides. “No,” he shouted. “Stop it, kid.”

 

Pasha fell still, confused. Was McCoy really so indifferent to everything Pasha could offer?

 

With a shake of his head, McCoy leaned back on his heels. “I’m sorry. I should have explained. Should have told you something, at least. You don’t have to do this. I know you think you’re a slave, but you’ve got to understand that you don’t belong to me. We need to get back to the ship, soon as we can. We’ll tell the captain what happened, and we’ll figure out what to do with you.”

 

Pasha shook his head frantically. The captain. It was as he’d feared. McCoy was a military man after all. Being given to this captain was surely a death sentence.

 

All his giddy arousal fled, replaced by cold fear. Pasha pulled away from McCoy and scurried back across the floor until he could get to his knees. He fell immediately into an apologetic posture: belly to the floor between his knees, face pressed down, hands in front of him, entirely submissive and at McCoy’s mercy.

 

“Chekov,” McCoy said softly. There was something scratchy in his voice that Pasha didn’t think was anger. “Don’t. You don’t need to do that.” He drew closer and took hold of Pasha’s shoulders, pulling him up off the floor. “Don’t.”

 

Pasha let himself be drawn up to sit, but he tensed with frustration. McCoy didn’t respond well to the direct approach, and now it seemed that he didn’t even want Pasha to apologize. A shiver of horror struck Pasha as he realized he might have violated some cultural taboo by touching McCoy as he had. Perhaps McCoy would punish him. Or maybe Pasha had not been sufficiently pleasing in his technique: another failing that would merit punishment.

 

Pasha fought down panic. He hated this, the first few nights of being with a new master, when he didn’t know the rules: what Master expected him to do, what would bring punishment. McCoy was different from any previous master of Pasha’s. He didn’t seem to want what they wanted, and nothing Pasha did seemed to please McCoy. He was surely too stupid, too inept to deserve McCoy.

 

At a loss, Pasha laid his palms open on his knees and risked a glance up from under dark lashes.

 

McCoy sighed. “I’m too tired for this, kid. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

 

Pasha stared at him. None of his masters had ever seen a reason to inquire into his thoughts, so he’d never had to come up with a way to make himself understood. But he had to try. He needed to win over McCoy now, tonight, before he was given away to McCoy’s employer, whoever that turned out to be.

 

Pasha raised a hand to his chest and held it there over the solid beat of his heart. He reached out gently, slowly, for McCoy’s face, and McCoy let him run a hand down the line of his jaw, scratchy with stubble. Pasha shifted forward, oh so carefully, and gradually he kept stroking his hand down McCoy’s cheek. McCoy watched him warily, with worry wearing wrinkles into his face, but he didn’t shout or shove Pasha away.

 

Carefully, slowly, Pasha leaned forward and pressed his lips against his master’s. McCoy’s eyes fluttered closed, and a little gasp escaped his parted lips. Taking advantage, Pasha licked his way inside—gently, of course—and was rewarded when McCoy’s hands clamped onto his shoulders, not pushing him away this time, but simply holding on as if he might fall.

 

Hope began to stir in Pasha again: perhaps he could earn McCoy’s favor. So far he’d planned his course well. Pasha snaked a hand down between their bodies, slid it between McCoy’s legs and—yes, victory!—found him hard.

 

Then McCoy shoved him away. Pasha fell backwards, cracking his head against the floor. McCoy lurched to his feet and charged to the other side of the room. Pasha blinked rapidly, trying to clear the stars that swam in his vision, but he couldn’t quite manage to sit up.

 

McCoy came at him with a small, oblong object clutched in his hand. A weapon?

 

Pasha finally got his body under enough control to curl up on his side and tuck his arms around his head protectively, hoping McCoy wouldn’t beat him too badly, or that if McCoy decided to kill him, he would make it quick.

 

“Chekov, damnit, hold still!” McCoy’s hands were on him, trying to pry his arms away from his face.

 

Pasha tried to relax, to obey and take his punishment bravely, because he knew that resisting would only get him into further trouble, but his stubborn body wouldn’t let go of the instinct to protect itself. After a moment of struggle, McCoy—who was, after all, larger and stronger—wrenched one of Pasha’s arms away, leaving the side of his neck exposed. Pasha felt a pinch and heard a mechanized hiss near his ear, and then McCoy released him and backed away.

 

“Sorry kid,” McCoy said.

 

Pasha lay still, wondering if he was going to die. About the time he decided he probably was not, darkness overtook him.  
\--

 

McCoy sat in the room’s only chair, staring down at his hands and shaking. Chekov lay slumped on his side on the floor, still naked. He’d be out another few hours at least. McCoy pried himself up, stumbled over to the bed, and stripped off the blanket. He crouched beside Chekov to drape the scant protection over his unconscious form. With his features slack, void of the fear and worry that had clouded his face since McCoy first saw him at the bazaar, Chekov looked almost peaceful.

 

“Damn fool old man,” McCoy muttered. He should have talked to Chekov, explained who he was. Amnesia victims weren’t incapable of understanding, McCoy knew. They were only suffering from a loss of information, just a misplacement of a fraction of the total data contained in the brain. McCoy had had no cause to keep Chekov in the dark other than his own fear of seeing how far his crewmate’s ignorance extended.

 

McCoy wasn’t prepared to deal with Chekov, and he was obviously making a mess of things. He needed help. McCoy dug his communicator out of his pack and called the best possible source for solving impossible problems in the middle of the night.

 

“Jim. Jim. Captain, this is McCoy.” The communicator crackled but sent no response. “Come in.” Still nothing. If they’d been injured or killed at the negotiations, McCoy was going to be very irritated. “Jim, please.”

 

“Doctor.” The communicator buzzed to life. “This is Spock. The Captain is indisposed at the moment. Our negotiations have been less than successful, and the situation is now... unstable.”

 

“Are you all right?”

 

“At the moment both the captain and myself are unharmed. However, we have lost the emergency beacons Mr. Scott provided. What is your status?”

 

“Fine. I’m…” He looked down at the unconscious form beside him. “I’m fine, Spock.”

 

“If you activate your emergency beacon, the Enterprise will enter orbit and beam you aboard. You can inform Mister Scott that we are in need of assistance. Once the ship is close enough, they will be able to lock onto our communicator signal.”

 

“If the Enterprise comes into orbit, won’t that alert the Bussarians that we’re here?”

 

“As we have already lost the element of surprise, I believe that is no longer a concern.”

 

“But Spock, these people--.”

 

In the background, McCoy heard Jim shouting, “A little cover here, Spock?”

 

“Go,” McCoy said quickly. “I’ll get you that help.”

 

“Spock out.”

 

McCoy folded his communicator closed. He walked over to the nightstand and picked up Scotty’s ingenious little trinket. He turned the disguised coin over in his hands as he looked at Chekov. By calling the Enterprise, he’d be destroying any chance of rescuing the other slaves he’d seen at that auction today. But Chekov would be safe. And every minute McCoy delayed was another minute Jim and Spock could be in danger. He pressed the disk between his thumbs and snapped it in half, giving Enterprise the signal to come get them.  



	4. Chapter 4

“I really thought those guards would be slower,” Kirk whispered.

 

Spock tightened his grip on the tree branch on which they were perched. “Captain, I would prefer if you did not speak.”

 

“As usual,” Kirk grumbled, but then he fell silent.

 

Below them passed two of Lord Intah’s guards, with their primitive phasers clutched firmly in hand.

 

Kirk took stock of the movement on the forest floor around them: three of the enemy that he could see. More could be concealed nearby, and if they made too much noise, the two of them could be overwhelmed before they knew it. Beside him, Spock had evidently come to the same conclusion. As the nearest guard passed under their tree, Kirk held up three fingers, then two, then he launched himself off the branch.

 

Spock jumped after him, as always. They hit the ground almost in unison. Kirk came up first, fists flying, and knocked down the passing guard before he could shout. Spock sped across the forest floor, running down the two guards who’d caught sight of them. His hand reached the neck of the first while the second raised his weapon. Then Kirk caught up with them, a wall of blunt force carrying the last guard to the ground.

 

From deeper into the woods, shouting came closer. “Captain, more are on the way,” Spock said.

 

“Shuttle. Let’s go.” Kirk dashed off through the scraggly trees, confident that Spock was following. A phaser blast burned past him and impacted a tree trunk, sending chunks of bark flying. Kirk rolled, came up on one knee facing the pursuers, and got off three shots before a shower of return fire sent him ducking behind a tree.

 

“Spock, a little cover here?” he called. He fired back the way they’d run as he darted to shelter behind another tree. “Spock?”

 

“Here, Captain.” Spock appeared beside him, phaser in hand. “Doctor McCoy is signaling the Enterprise to retrieve us.”

 

“They’ll never get here in time to stop Intah’s ship from taking off.”

 

“Agreed. However, we may be able to delay their departure.”

 

The bulky form of their shuttle loomed before them. Kirk hit the manual override on the door, and cursed the seconds it took for the entryway to open. He slipped through the door as soon as there was room, and went right to the cockpit to start the takeoff sequence. Behind him, he could hear Spock firing the phaser he’d taken from their pursuers, holding off the last of the guards.

 

“Close it up, Spock!” Kirk shouted. “We’re out of here!”

 

Trusting that his first officer would have the sense to hang on to something, he punched the ignition and pulled up hard, bringing the shuttle bursting out of the trees and tearing over the outskirts of Buran.

 

Spock dragged himself into the cockpit and slid into the co-pilot’s seat. “The launch pad is likely to be close to Intah’s compound.”

 

Kirk nodded and swung the shuttle around in the direction from which they’d run. The trip was much quicker in a shuttle than on foot, and in less than a minute Kirk caught sight of the tall spires of Intah’s manor house. Nearby, a large transport shuttle was just lifting off. Beside it hovered two smaller shuttles, both outfitted with hefty-looking phaser arrays. The Enterprise’s shuttles had some weaponry, but they were not meant for quick maneuvering in planetary atmosphere.

 

“Spock?” Kirk asked as Intah’s convoy spotted them and moved to defend.

 

“Their firepower is considerably superior,” Spock observed.

 

“Then you’d better be ready for some fancy co-piloting.”  
\--

 

When McCoy materialized in the main transporter room, he was relieved to see Montgomery Scott himself standing at the controls. Scott’s pleased smile turned to alarm when he saw McCoy supporting a semi-conscious man.

 

“What’s this about, then?” He rushed up onto the transporter pad to help, but he froze mid-way through the action. “McCoy…Is--?”

 

“Yes, it’s Chekov,” McCoy said wearily, and shifted his arm around his groggy patient.

 

Scott just stared. McCoy would have expected an outburst, maybe a shout or a hug, but instead the engineer just stood silent and still, as if the sight of Chekov alive had frozen him in his tracks.

 

“We’ve got to get him to sickbay,” McCoy said impatiently.

 

“Aye, of course,” Scott said, and shook himself out of his stupor to come help McCoy support Chekov. “Is he injured?”

 

“I don’t know,” McCoy said truthfully. His fingers itched for the suite of diagnostic tools in sickbay.

 

“Well what the hell went on down there?”

 

“I’ll explain later.” McCoy steered them toward the hallway. “What happened to the captain?”

 

“He and Commander Spock are handling the situation.”

 

At that moment, red alert began to blare.

 

McCoy rolled his eyes. “If you say so. Help me get him to sickbay, damn it.”  
\--

 

Pasha squinted in the bright light and tried to follow the whirlwind of activity around him. A loud, repetitive siren blared at regular intervals, accompanied by the flashing of a red light near the ceiling. From where Pasha lay on a high, pristine-white bed, he saw several men and women in blue and black uniforms rushing about. His master, now wearing a similar uniform, was among them. Pasha noted the way he snapped orders and the way everyone jumped to obey him. This must be his master’s military vessel.

 

Gingerly, for Pasha still felt slightly unsteady from the aftereffects of what his master had given him, he slid off the bed and straightened his clothes (new ones—someone had bathed him and dressed him in soft black pants and a long black shirt). His hand flew to his neck to find the collar still comfortingly secure. He wove his way through the chaos to his master’s side. He raised his hand to touch McCoy and alert him to his presence, but his master must have sensed him, for he whirled around and barked, “What?”

 

Pasha dropped to his knees and bowed his head, chagrined at having irritated his master in their first interaction in his new home.

 

“Damnit kid, I’m sorry.” When McCoy recognized Pasha, his whole manner changed. He bent down to grab Pasha by the arm and pulled him back to his feet. “Come on, you shouldn’t be up and about until we’re sure that sedative is out of your system.”

 

The red lights flashed one more time and then ceased, and the blaring noise also stopped. “Must have gotten them on board finally…” he said. Whatever he saw on Pasha’s face made him pat his shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry about all that. Just some trouble with the local authorities getting the captain back.”

 

The captain. Of course. Pasha had failed to impress McCoy, and now he would be given away. Here, in the clean brightness of McCoy’s ship, further struggle seemed futile. Pasha let McCoy lead him back to the bed, which was sheltered from the rest of the room by a wall. “You feeling okay? Lightheaded, dizzy?”

 

Pasha shook his head. This care, these continuous questions about his well-being, puzzled him. He couldn’t work out why McCoy was being so cautious around him, unless he thought Pasha was weak or infirm. Or this captain treated his slaves roughly, and McCoy wanted to make sure Pasha wouldn’t break too soon.

 

“We ran a few simple tests while you were out earlier, but I want to do an examination to make sure you’re healthy. If anything hurts, or if you don’t like what I’m doing, you need to tell me. Understand?”

 

Pasha nodded, but [he resolved not to stop the examination no matter what McCoy did to him](http://wheres-walnut.livejournal.com/36817.html). He would show he wasn’t weak.

 

McCoy picked up a rectangular instrument that he pointed at Pasha. He held the thing at a distance and moved it up and down, frowning at the display. “Uh huh. Still no change in the vitals. You’re a little undernourished, but we can fix that easily enough.”

 

McCoy ran his thumb along Pasha’s collar. Pasha’s breath froze in his throat, and he hardly dared move, lest McCoy shy away from him again. “Sorry about this. I still can’t work out how to take it off without hurting you. We’ll figure it out, though. They’ll want to look at the information in that chip.”

 

Pasha reached up and linked a finger through his collar. If McCoy removed it, Pasha could be mistaken for an unclaimed slave or a runaway. Of course he would do as his master wished, but McCoy held some unorthodox ideas about slave ownership.

 

McCoy was pointing that strange device at him again, and frowning at what it told him. “The scan’s still not picking up anything wrong with your throat. Damn it.”

 

Pasha hung his head in contrition. Other masters hadn’t seen his muteness as a problem. A slave shouldn’t need to speak anyway, he’d been told repeatedly. His job was to listen and obey. But McCoy seemed to see his lack of a voice as a defect, another disappointment. His stomach clenched as the thought struck him that he might be deemed too damaged to be given to this captain at all, and instead face some even worse fate.

 

“How long has that been going on? You not being able to talk?” McCoy caught his mistake before Pasha faced the unenviable task of trying to explain a complicated answer. “Sorry, sorry. A long time?” Pasha nodded. “More than a month?” Pasha nodded again. “Do you remember being able to speak?”

 

Pasha nodded his head yes. Barely, but he remembered the early days of his training, before they’d taken away his strongest tool for fighting back.

 

McCoy waved the scanner closer to Pasha, and his frown returned. "Can you tell me what happened? I mean, did they do something to make you stop talking?”

 

Pasha considered for a moment how to make McCoy understand what they’d done. McCoy seemed to be irritated by reminders of Pasha’s slave status, or of his former masters, and he certainly didn’t like to see Pasha in pain—at least so far—so Pasha saw no need to go into detail about the early days of his training, even if he’d been able to. Instead, he wrapped a hand around his throat, above the collar, and pulled it away slowly.

 

“It’s the collar,” McCoy guessed. “The collar stops you talking?”

 

Pasha shook his head quickly. He’d have to work on finding better ways to express himself if McCoy kept demanding things from him no other master had been interested in. He put his hand out in front of him, palm down, then slapped it lightly.

 

McCoy frowned. “You were bad?”

 

Pasha nodded, pleased with himself for having conveyed his meaning, even if it was only to confess his inadequacy. He put his hand to his throat again, then pulled it away, closing his fingers into a fist and pushing it toward McCoy. When his master looked puzzled, he slapped his hand again, then touched his throat and drew his hand away.

 

“You were bad, so they took your voice away?”

 

Pasha nodded. The look McCoy gave him wasn’t displeasure, exactly, but Pasha didn’t like it. He had no excuse for upsetting his master. He wanted to convey to McCoy his gratitude at how well he’d treated Pasha so far, but he wasn’t sure how to do it without irritating McCoy further. Tentatively, he reached for his master’s hand. McCoy didn’t pull away, so Pasha drew his hand to his forehead and pressed it there, hoping that McCoy would recognize the expression of loyalty in the gesture.

 

McCoy allowed it for only a moment before pulling his hand away and sighing. “Listen, Chekov. I want you to understand something.” He pulled a chair over next to the bed and sat looking up at Pasha. “You don’t belong to anyone. You don’t have to kneel to anyone. Understand? I’m not your master. You’re your own man.”

 

Pasha dropped his eyes, unable to maintain a strong front any longer. McCoy obviously had no interest in Pasha, or any of the skills he could offer. He’d tried to the best of his abilities, but no action of his seemed to impress McCoy. He nodded reluctantly, just to show he’d heard, but he didn’t understand. If he didn’t belong to McCoy, then what would become of him?  
\--

 

“Where is he?” Kirk demanded as he barged into sickbay.

 

Nurse Chapel stopped him with a look and an upraised hand. “Where did all those bruises come from, Captain?”

 

“We got into a little scrape on Bussar. Where is he?” He tried to keep walking, but Chapel blocked his way.

 

“Who, sir?”

 

“Chekov! Where is he, Christine?”

 

She held up both hands and closed her eyes for a moment before she said, “Doctor McCoy is with him. But you have to understand, he’s not well.”

 

Kirk carefully schooled his expression, even as his heart plummeted. Commander Scott had sounded so genuinely thrilled that he’d assumed the best. He nodded to Chapel. “Anything I should know?”

 

“Doctor McCoy hasn’t said much,” Chapel said quietly. “But he’s not himself. He doesn’t know where he is, I think.”

 

“Can I see him?”

 

“They’re in the back.” Chapel led him as far as the wall that divided main sickbay from the exam area. Kirk steeled himself for what he might find, and stepped around the corner.

 

McCoy stood next to a bio bed, making a note with his stylus on a data padd. On the bed sat Chekov. His curls spilled over his ears in an unruly mess, and the black standard-issue shirt hung off his too-thin frame, but he was alive, and whole. Kirk couldn’t suppress the start of a relieved laugh. “Chekov!”

 

McCoy whirled around. Chekov started, jumped off the bed, and looked ready to flee until McCoy settled a hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright,” he said soothingly. Kirk couldn’t remember McCoy ever speaking so gently. “This is Captain Kirk.”

 

Chekov began to drop to his knees, but McCoy caught him under the arm.

 

“Woah.” Kirk came closer. “You okay there, Chekov?”

 

“He’s okay, Jim. He just wanted to kneel.” McCoy turned to Chekov and softened his tone. “Remember, you don’t have to do that.”

 

“Hey, a lot of people have that reaction to me.”

 

Bones shot him a sharp look, not a fondly exasperated roll of the eyes, but a cold glare that told Jim in no uncertain terms that he had gone too far.

 

“Go on kid. Go lie down,” McCoy ordered. When Chekov didn’t move, he added, “I’ll be right back.” Chekov nodded hesitantly and slunk back to sit on the bio bed without once raising his eyes. McCoy led Jim back to his office.

 

“He looks healthy,” Kirk offered.

 

“Physically he’s not too bad off.” McCoy slumped into his desk chair.

 

“But?”

 

“You saw him.” McCoy gestured vaguely, but seemed too dejected even to dig out the flask Kirk knew must be hiding somewhere in his desk. “Something they did to him messed with his mind.”

 

“Okay,” Kirk said slowly. “Like a drug?”

 

“Not exactly. I don’t know what the hell happened.” McCoy glanced toward the door of the office and lowered his voice. “He doesn’t remember us, the Enterprise, anything.”

 

“How do we fix it?”

 

“Until I do some more tests and figure out what exactly the problem is, I can’t say.”

 

“But he doesn’t remember.”

 

McCoy shook his head. “He doesn’t remember anything before he disappeared, near as I can tell.”

 

“What could cause that?”

 

“Head injury. Drugs. Some sort of illness, maybe. Hell, Jim, it could have been anything. We still don’t know who took him, or where he’s been all this time.” McCoy’s fist clenched hard at his side. “We barely know more than we did the day he disappeared.”

 

“Hey, it’s okay.” Kirk went to lean against the desk and put a steadying hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. Just go have a look at him. Spock and I will deal with what we can find of the on-planet branch of the slave trade. If we come across anything that might explain what happened, you’ll be the first to know.”

 

“Thanks Jim.”  
\--

 

Sulu maneuvered the Enterprise back into orbit, maintaining their position above Bussar’s main continent.

 

“I can’t believe Kirk brought that shuttle in with just one engine,” Kelso said. “Those things are hard enough to fly when they’re working right.”

 

“Uh huh,” Sulu said absently.

 

“I can’t even imagine taking on an enemy ship in atmo with nothing but a shuttle. And _three_ enemy ships… Man.”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“Good thing to know he really can pilot. If there was an emergency or anything, I mean, I bet Kirk could fly the Enterprise just as easy as that shuttle.”

 

“Probably.”

 

“I mean, he could do my job too, maybe, but he seems like he’s a great pilot.”

 

Sulu was saved from having to suffer any more of Kelso’s chatter by Spock and Scotty arriving on the bridge. Spock had evidently stopped to change back into his uniform. He still looked bruised and a bit tousled, which wasn’t much considering what he’d been through on the planet, but on the usually impeccable first officer, a little bit of dirt and bruising seemed disproportionately serious.

 

“Commander,” Sulu said. “Welcome back.”

 

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Mister Scott?” Spock went right for the science station without stopping by the command chair or asking for a report, which in itself was strange. Even after an absence of a few hours, Spock usually wanted to be brought up to speed on onboard events. Now, however, he and Scott bent over Spock’s station and began to talk in hushed tones. Kelso caught Sulu’s eye and shrugged dramatically, but then part of Spock’s conversation with Scotty grabbed Sulu’s attention.

 

“What did you say?” he asked. Spock turned around and raised an eyebrow at him, and Sulu realized he’d interrupted the conversation of two superior officers. “I’m sorry, Commander, I thought I heard… Heard something.”

 

Everyone else on the bridge, attuned to Sulu’s sharp tenseness, fell silent to listen to the exchange. Spock regarded him coolly for a moment, as if considering whether to answer. “I said Ensign Chekov is in sickbay.”

 

Sulu stared back at him. He couldn’t breathe in, couldn’t move. Even though he thought he’d heard the name, he hadn’t really believed it. “Chekov.”

 

“Doctor McCoy recovered him during the course of our mission on Bussar.”

 

Too many questions crowded up, tangling on Sulu’s tongue in their haste to be asked. On the whole bridge, the only sound was the ping of instruments.

 

Then Uhura spoke. “Sir, the governor is hailing us again.”

 

“Acknowledge. Lieutenant, please bring us into position directly above Buran.”

 

Sulu turned back to the controls, but his fingers didn’t seem able to move. His ears buzzed, and it wasn’t until a hand clasped his shoulder that he realized someone was addressing him.

 

He looked up, blinking, in the captain’s face. Kirk was back on the bridge. “Sulu. Maybe you should go down to sickbay.”

 

“Yes. Okay. Yes.” He stood up, gratefully that his body seemed to know what to do without his conscious control.

 

“Sulu.” Kirk drew him aside by the exit and spoke softly. “Don’t expect too much.”

 

Recovered him. That’s what Spock had said. Or at least that’s what Sulu thought he heard. Did Spock mean they’d recovered his body? Sulu could barely get the words past the tightness in his throat, “Is he alive?”

 

“Yes,” Kirk said quickly, shaking his head as if the alternative was too much to contemplate. “Sulu, yes, he’s alive, he’s up walking around. Just… Talk to McCoy before you try to see Chekov. Understand?”

 

“Yes sir.”  
\--

 

“I can’t figure the damn thing out.” McCoy pulled another tool off the shelf in the storage closet, looked at it in disgust, and tossed it back on the shelf. “There’s no clasp, no lock, nothing.”

 

Nurse Chapel stood in the doorway, wisely out of McCoy’s path. “Have you asked engineering?”

 

“That’s all I need,” McCoy snapped. “Montgomery Scott coming at the kid’s neck with a plasma torch. Liable to kill him as soon as get the thing off.”

 

“What about those Cyrillian pliers. You know, the ones we used when Commander N’tach went into premature labor? Remember, the Veri-insectoid?”

 

“Right, right, of course,” McCoy said absently.

 

“I’ll see if we still have them,” Chapel said, and ducked out of the supply closet. She hadn’t been out of sight a minute when shouting erupted from the main sickbay. “Doctor!”

 

McCoy made it to the doorway to see Hikaru Sulu flat on his back, blocking the flurry of blows Chekov aimed at his face from his position above the downed pilot.

 

“Chekov, stop!” McCoy shouted.

 

Chekov’s head snapped up. When he saw McCoy in the doorway, he instantly jumped up. One sharp step backwards took him clear of Sulu, and then he stood with head bowed, bruised fists hanging at his sides. “Sulu, what the hell did you do?”

 

Sulu stumbled to his feet. He wiped a hand across his bloody lip, but he looked more betrayed than hurt. “Nothing. I just came in to see him.”

 

“Well you must have done something worth attacking you for,” McCoy snapped. He went to stand between his patient and the bewildered helmsman.

 

“I didn’t even touch him! Wait…” Sulu’s expression turned thoughtful. “No, I did. He wouldn’t look at me. I didn’t even know if he was hearing me, so I went over by the bed. I put my hand on his shoulder. Then he attacked me.”

 

“Chekov!” McCoy turned. “Why the hell’d you hit him?”

 

Chekov dropped to his knees on the hard metal floor, making McCoy wince in sympathy—and pressed his forehead to the floor in the position of apology, of submission, that McCoy had come to loathe.

 

“No,” Sulu whispered. McCoy had forgotten that not everyone was used to displays like this from Chekov.

 

“It’s fine, Lieutenant,” he said, though of course it was nothing like fine. He lowered himself to the floor next to Chekov—too old for this, damnit—and spoke quietly. “Hey. Why did you attack him?”

 

Chekov sat up on his heels slowly. He looked hesitantly up at McCoy, then threw a quick glance at Sulu. A wrinkle creased his forehead, and McCoy recognized the telltale sign of Chekov working out how to convey a complex idea. Of course, the kid was brilliant, and he soon began gesturing determinedly.

 

He curled one hand against his chest, then tentatively lifted McCoy’s hand and pulled his own fist away from his body to settle it in the palm of McCoy’s hand.

 

“You were scared?” McCoy guessed.

 

Chekov shook his head and repeated the motion, pulling his clenched hand away from his chest and giving it to McCoy.

 

“You…You wanted to make something?”

 

Another frustrated shake of his head. Chekov furrowed his brow again, thinking, and tried something else. He took McCoy’s hand and pulled it gently against the front of his synthetic polymer collar.

 

“You… Oh. You belong to me.”

 

Chekov nodded emphatically.

 

“He doesn’t _belong_ to anyone,” Sulu growled. “He’s a human being.”

 

“Shut up and listen,” McCoy snapped.

 

Chekov still looked troubled.

 

“What?” McCoy prompted.

 

Chekov hovered uncertainly, neither dropping back into his submissive posture nor making eye contact, as if there were more he wanted to communicate, but hesitated to do so.

 

“Tell me, Chekov.”

 

Chekov made the gesture once more, putting his fist into McCoy’s hand.

 

“Yeah, okay, you’re mine,” McCoy said, ignoring Sulu’s derisive snort.

 

Chekov pointed at Sulu, then with a sharp gesture, used his other hand to pull his fist away from McCoy.

 

“You thought he was trying to take you from me.”

 

Chekov held up both fists in a mockery of fighting stance.

 

“So you were defending my property.” Considering the way the other owners at that market treated their slaves, the behavior made sense.

 

Chekov nodded, and a small smile appeared at the pleasure of making himself understood.

 

“Well, you don’t need to beat up Sulu.”

 

Chekov’s smile dropped away. He made another sign, taking his hand first to Bones, then tentatively toward Sulu with a look of pained inquiry.

 

“No! I’m not going to hand you around like a damn party favor. You never have to worry about that, you hear? Is that what they did to you?”

 

Sulu clapped a hand down on McCoy’s shoulder. “Doctor, you’re scaring him.”

 

At McCoy’s angry tone, Chekov had shrunk back against the wall, folding himself into as small as space as possible.

 

“Damnit. I’m sorry.”

 

“Doctor…” Sulu’s voice was barely a whisper. “Is he all right?”

 

“No,” McCoy sighed. “Come here, Chekov.”

 

He slid forward across the floor until he was close enough to lay a hand on Chekov’s back. Immediately, as if a switch had been flipped, Chekov slid into position on his knees, head bowed, though he was still trembling. “Lieutenant Sulu won’t touch you, okay?” He hated feeling like he was talking to a child. Chekov was a Starfleet officer—a damn good one, too, whatever his age—and he shouldn’t be shaking in fear just because McCoy raised his voice. “He won’t touch you. He may come here to visit you if you say that’s alright, but he won’t touch.” McCoy rubbed gentle circles on Chekov’s back as he talked, and Chekov’s trembling subsided.

 

“Sulu.”

 

“Huh?” Sulu startled out of the half-trance he’d been in, staring at McCoy’s hand on Chekov.

 

“You need your face looked at? He do any damage?”

 

Sulu slowly shook his head. He hadn’t once taken his eyes from Chekov, although Chekov hadn’t looked back at him at all. “No. You…” He backed away slowly, shaking his head. “I should get back to the bridge.” He was gone before McCoy could say anything further.  
\--

 

Kirk’s senior staff had seldom been so distracted during a mission briefing. But each of the officers around the table seemed distant as the Fleet intelligence rep, Trenach, dissected the problems at hand. Kirk knew how they felt. McCoy’s usual seat at the table was vacant, and Kirk’s thoughts kept wandering to him, holed up in sickbay with their miraculously returned, though thoroughly damaged, navigator.

 

Trenach referred to his padd to broach the next point on his agenda. “What about the escort ships that came to rescue that transport?”

 

Spock turned to look at Sulu, but it took the helmsman a moment to realize he was being addressed. “Escort ships,” Spock prompted.

 

“We lost them, sir,” Sulu said. “They scattered while we were getting the captain’s shuttle back on board.”

 

“So you lost both the transport and the escort ships,” Trenach said. Kirk didn’t like the nasty edge in his voice.

 

“Yes, sir,” Sulu said through tightly clenched teeth. “We couldn’t disable them without risking the slaves aboard.”

 

“It’s not your fault,” Kirk broke in. “They knew we were coming, anyway. Lord Intah wasn’t as… open to negotiation as we were lead to believe. Starfleet’s strength is not exactly subtlety.”

 

“I apologize for any tactical insufficiency--,” Spock began.

 

“Cool it, Spock. You couldn’t have known. We did the best we could with the information we had at the time,” Kirk said. He met the eyes of each of his officers so they all knew they weren’t to blame for the relative failure this mission had become. “Besides, we may be able to track them.”

 

“How exactly do you propose to do that?” Trenach asked.

 

“We should be able to follow a sub-space transmitter that’s been modified to provide a long-range signal,” Kirk said reasonably.

 

“We could, if they had such a device, and if we just happened to know the frequency,” Trenach sneered.

 

“Or if I happened to drop my transmitter coin in our trader friend’s ship,” Kirk said, examining his nails with a self-satisfied smirk.

 

“You’re brilliant, Captain,” Scotty said.

 

Kirk grinned. “Sometimes.”  
\--

 

McCoy wasn’t surprised that Chekov looked wary when he approached with a wicked-looking pair of Cyrillian pliers. Post-traumatic stress hadn’t been a common problem back when McCoy was a simple country doctor, but here on the Enterprise he’d seen more PTSD symptoms than he cared to remember. McCoy could only imagine what horrors Chekov had endured to make him supplicate himself for mercy at every perceived mistake and flinch away from every stranger’s touch as if he expected a blow.

 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” McCoy said in a voice calculated so soothe. “I’m just going to get that damn collar off.”

 

Chekov linked his fingers through the front of his collar and backed up two quick steps.

 

“It’s not going to hurt, I promise.”

 

Chekov retreated two more steps, fell to his knees, and pressed his face to the floor.

 

“Damn it to hell,” McCoy breathed quietly. He had thought they’d gotten past this stage. He set the pliers on the biobed and dropped to a crouch beside Chekov. “What is this? What did I do? We’ve got to get that collar off.”

 

Chekov lifted up onto his knees and wrapped both hands protectively around the ring of synthetic material that circled his throat.

 

“You don’t want the collar off?”

 

Chekov nodded emphatically and wrapped his hands tighter around his neck.

 

“Why the hell not?”

 

Chekov pulled one finger against his collar, then brought his hand out in a loose fist and pushed it toward McCoy. He’d seen that gesture before. “You belong to me. Chekov, I _told_ you--.”

 

Chekov nodded quickly, but his hands were moving again, so McCoy shut up and watched. Chekov touched his collar. He pointed in a wide arc behind McCoy, toward the rest of the ship, then pointed to his eyes and again to his collar.

 

“Everyone can see the collar.”

 

He pointed again: eyes, collar, McCoy.

 

“They can see you belong to me.”

 

Chekov nodded solemnly. He waved a finger at McCoy, and then pulled both hands away from his collar, as if pulling it off. He pointed again toward the rest of the ship. He covered his eyes, then uncovered them and looked at McCoy expectantly.

 

“If they don’t see the collar, then…?”

 

Chekov’s look of anticipation remained. He clearly expected McCoy to work this out for himself, but McCoy could only generate an uneasy suspicion, not an articulation of Chekov’s point.

 

After a moment, Chekov seemed to realize McCoy didn’t get it. His expression morphed into a determined frown, and his hands began moving again. He touched the collar, pointed beyond McCoy, and covered his eyes. Then he pointed again, to the mysterious “others” represented by the world beyond sickbay. He pointed to himself, then pulled his hand away quickly.

 

“You’re afraid they’ll take you away,” McCoy guessed.

 

Chekov held his two fists together and brought them out and apart in a quick, snapping motion.

 

“Oh. They’ll…” He couldn’t say break, so he settled for, “They’ll hurt you.”

 

Chekov nodded, apparently relieved that he’d conveyed his meaning at last.

 

“No, Chekov. Listen. I won’t let anyone hurt you. And they wouldn’t. Not Sulu, not Jim. No one wants to see you hurt.” McCoy took Chekov by the shoulders and made sure he had his attention. “Listen to me. You used to be an officer on this ship. You were… a friend of mine. Of all of us. And then, about a year ago, you were taken away. We’ve been looking for you. You’ve got a lot of friends on this ship, and they’re all very glad to have you back.”

 

Chekov gave a shallow nod, but it was clear he didn’t entirely believe what McCoy was telling him.

 

“Masters have lied to you before, haven’t they.”

 

Chekov seemed torn as to how to answer that, so McCoy waved him off. “Doesn’t matter. I won’t lie to you. Hell, I don’t lie to anyone, even when I should. No one’s going to hurt you on this ship. You belong here. You just don’t remember it. And we’ll figure out a way to get your memories back. In the meantime, you know what would make me happy?”

 

Chekov leaned forward in rapt fascination and nodded vigorously. He evidently very much wanted to know.

 

“Forget whatever they told you you had to do as a slave. You’re not a slave, here. You’re…” McCoy didn’t know what the hell he was. He couldn’t be a member of the crew, not in his state. He wasn’t a prisoner, certainly, and he was more than a patient. “Just pretend you’re my guest. I want you to feel at home here. Can you try that?”

 

Chekov nodded reluctantly.

 

“Good. Now let me get that collar off you.”  
\--

 

Pasha slid his hand around his naked throat, reveling in the novelty of a bare neck. McCoy had told him to rest, but he couldn’t sleep here in this sterile cage of steel and glass. Besides, his master—no, McCoy: he didn’t like to be thought of as master—McCoy hadn’t slept since Pasha awoke here.

 

Even now Pasha could see McCoy rushing about his domain, engaged in a tense conversation with the blue-uniformed woman who was so often at his side. They passed out of his sight, so Pasha slid off the narrow bed and crept over to the entryway to get a better view.

 

“And you won’t see a single patient more until you do,” the woman was saying.

 

“I’m the Chief Medical Officer. I’ll be in charge of my own health, thank you very much.”

 

“I’ll tell the captain you haven’t slept in twenty-four hours.”

 

“That’s fighting dirty, Christine. Fine. Just let me check on him one more time.”

 

“I think he’s way ahead of you.” The woman—Christine—looked Pasha’s way and winked at him.

 

McCoy turned back and caught him standing there in the doorway. Pasha reined in the instinct to shrink back or flee. He hadn’t done anything wrong. For any other master he would have stepped forward, knelt, and waited for orders. But McCoy didn’t want that. So instead Pasha dropped his eyes deferentially and waited to be acknowledged.

 

“Go back to sleep, kid.” McCoy patted him gingerly on the shoulder and waved back toward the room Pasha had come from. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

Pasha grabbed McCoy’s arm, but when McCoy turned, startled, to look at him, he dropped his hold immediately and returned his eyes to the floor. His behavior didn’t become his training. A slave belonged to the master, not the master to the slave. McCoy could go where he pleased without regard for Pasha. He would have to conquer his selfish fear at being left alone on this strange ship with people who expected him to be someone he wasn’t.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Pasha looked back at the bed where McCoy had put him, cold and sterile in the white light of this place, and turned back to McCoy. He wanted to kneel, but knew it would only irritate his master, so instead he steeled himself and did as McCoy had commanded: tried to act more like a guest than a slave. He pointed to the door, then at McCoy, and looked at his master expectantly, framing a question.

 

“Yes, I’m going back to my quarters.”

 

Pasha pointed to himself, then at McCoy.

 

“No,” McCoy said quickly. “You stay here. If you don’t want to stay in sickbay, I suppose we can have some quarters made up tomorrow, but you should stay here for observation. We still don’t know what all they did to you.”

 

Pasha pointed to himself again, then at McCoy. McCoy turned back to the woman, who only gave him an enigmatic shrug.

 

“Bad idea,” McCoy said. “Very bad.”

 

Once more, Pasha laid a hand on his own chest, and held his hand out toward McCoy.

 

“Damn it, this is a bad idea,” McCoy said, but he took Pasha’s hand and pulled him toward the door.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

Trust. Building up Chekov’s confidence. Encouraging him to feel comfortable on the Enterprise. All great reasons for McCoy to be bringing a traumatized and amnesiac crewmember to his cabin. Still, that didn’t mean he felt the need to inform Jim or anyone else about these _medically necessary_ , if unorthodox, methods.

 

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” McCoy said as the door to his quarters slid shut behind them. “You’re not going to jump me tonight. I didn’t buy you for anything like that, no matter what you’re used to, so there will be no trying to get my clothes off while I’m asleep. That’s not appropriate behavior for a houseguest, no matter what they invented where you come from. Are we clear?”

 

Chekov nodded, and had the grace to look at least a little chagrined.

 

McCoy itched to raid the cabinet by his bed for some Kentucky bourbon to make this situation less awkward. But he wouldn’t drink in front of Chekov, and besides, he was supposed to be making the other man feel comfortable and safe, not glaring at him as if he were an intruder or an inconvenience. He put on what he hoped was a soothing tone of voice. “Where do you want to sleep, Chekov? You have a choice. I can have the quartermaster bring in a cot, or there’s a perfectly nice sofa, or you can have the bed and I’ll find--.”

 

Chekov padded over to the far wall, where a hand-woven rug from Bajor covered a square of the floor. Chekov circled it once, twice, like a dog, before lying down on the ground.

 

McCoy stopped himself from protesting. He’d told Chekov he could choose, and he didn’t want the man to think he’d done something wrong. Still, McCoy couldn’t help but ask, “You know you don’t have to sleep on the floor?”

 

Chekov nodded.

 

“You need anything? Water? At least let me get you a blanket.”

 

Chekov shook his head.

 

McCoy watched him warily for a moment, but he seemed to be settled. McCoy shuffled around the room carrying out his usual nighttime routine: hygiene, sleepwear, checking his communicator for urgent notices (one from Jim that made him frown: _Any change?_ ). He periodically glanced over at Chekov, who lay still on his rug and watched McCoy unblinkingly. Finally, McCoy pulled back the covers on his bed, sat down, and regarded his guest thoughtfully.

 

“You promise you’re not going to try to jump me tonight?”

 

Nod.

 

“Okay then.” That silent assurance would have to do. McCoy hit the panel to turn off the lights. “Goodnight, Chekov.”  
\--

 

Pasha awoke with a start in a dark, unfamiliar place. He froze as his mind raced through the concerns always at the top of his mind: where master was, and what he needed. Seconds ticked by as the evidence shook itself into place in his mind. He was loose, not tied up. The room was dark—nighttime, maybe. Pasha wasn’t in pain, or hungry, or naked: the clothes he wore were clean and soft. He should be doing something; didn’t master always give him orders to carry out when he awoke? But no. As the dark room resolved into recognizable shapes around him, he knew. There were no orders. Not here. Not from this master.

 

McCoy. He was in his master’s room on his master’s ship. And he hadn’t been given away to the captain, or to Sulu, or anyone else. In fact, he remembered drowsily, he was meant to believe he didn’t belong to anyone at all.

 

Pasha sat up and took stock of the room: spare darkness, a few glowing panels whose functions Pasha couldn’t guess, and McCoy himself, huddled in bed, breathing evenly. Pasha pushed himself up to standing and drifted toward the bed.

 

Earlier—for Pasha had no way to tell how many hours had passed since he’d fallen asleep—McCoy had seemed reluctant to allow Pasha to stay. But at least he’d forgiven Pasha for the incident that night on Bussar, and Pasha wouldn’t violate his trust again. He stood looking down at his master: the relaxed blankness of his features, the solid rise and fall of his chest.

 

McCoy trusted him and treated him well, and Pasha could offer nothing in return. Nothing McCoy wanted, at least. He had sounded so earnest earlier, spinning the tale that Pasha was one of them, a beloved long-lost friend. He didn’t quite understand McCoy’s game. Masters had made him play unusual roles before, of course: every master had certain expectations of the person his or her slave should be, even if they didn’t paint a backstory as intricate as the one McCoy had invented.

 

Pasha allowed himself a moment to indulge in childish fantasy: that he’d really been born a free man, that this shining ship was full of people who loved him and had missed him, that somewhere out among the stars through which they flew, his family waited for him, that McCoy was his lover, his protector, and in a moment Pasha could climb into bed and McCoy would reflexively pull him close and mutter sleepy endearments against his skin.

 

He hoped McCoy wouldn’t consider it a breach of trust, but he didn’t want to sleep on the floor for the next however many nights, wondering how much, exactly, McCoy was willing to give. He tapped McCoy on the shoulder.

 

McCoy jerked awake and stared up at him, disoriented. “What? Chekov? What?” His hair was comically disheveled, and his eyes squinted even in the dark.

 

Pasha wrapped his arms around himself tightly and gave a short, false shiver.

 

“Cold?” McCoy asked. He leaned up on his elbows, evidently concerned.

 

Pasha nodded. Then, without waiting for an invitation, he pulled back the covers and climbed into bed with McCoy, leaving a respectful distance between them.

 

Behind him, McCoy muttered something indistinct under his breath, but he didn’t shove Pasha out of bed or run away. He reached down and pulled the covers over both of them. “Go to sleep, Chekov.”  
\--

 

McCoy jerked awake. From somewhere nearby, muted sounds of distress drifted to him. In the too-long seconds he took to identify the sound, he rubbed the crust out of eyes that ached from too little sleep. When his memory finally caught up to him, he realized it was Chekov asleep next to him, curled up in a tiny ball in a spare set of standard issue sleep clothes from sickbay, which were comically big on him. It was Chekov who was whimpering: high-pitched, desperate sounds that shook him.

 

“Chekov,” he whispered. He began to reach for his shoulder, but stopped himself, his hand hovering inches away from the man in his bed. He didn’t want to scare him, or feed into whatever nightmare had him in its grip. McCoy had seen night terrors before, a time or two. Once during their academy days McCoy woke Jim Kirk up from a screaming fit and got a right hook to the jaw for his trouble before Jim realized where he was. Chekov had undoubtedly experienced enough to fuel a hundred nightmares, and McCoy didn’t want to make it worse. “Chekov,” he whispered again.

 

Chekov shook his head, but the noises didn’t subside. McCoy scooted closer until he lay just a few inches away, and let his hand settle on Chekov’s back. “Shh,” he soothed. “It’s alright.”

 

Chekov bowed his head, and curled tighter in on himself.

 

“Shh,” McCoy said again. “It’s okay. You’re good, darlin.” He hoped Chekov would forgive him for speaking to him like he would soothe a spooked horse, but at least the kid had stopped those terrified noises. “Shh.” After a minute, Chekov’s breathing evened out, and the tension drained from his body as he relaxed into more restful sleep.

 

Gingerly, McCoy took his hand from the kid’s back and turned onto his side. He lay there, staring out into the darkness and watching the chronometer for several minutes until he realized there was no hope of getting back to sleep.

 

He rolled out of bed. He undertook his morning regimen locked in the relative safety of his tiny bathroom. As he went about his routine, his mind ran itself in dizzy circles imagining what was happening with Chekov out there. Under the covers. In McCoy’s bed. Where he’d slept.

 

By the time he’d plucked up enough courage to open the door, a fully-dressed Chekov was busy fluffing the pillows on the immaculately made bed. He seemed perfectly chipper, as if he didn’t even know he’d had a nightmare—hell, maybe he was lucky to be having memory problems—but he was back to trying to be a damn servant.

 

“You don’t have to do that,” McCoy snapped.

 

Chekov ducked his head quickly, but not before McCoy saw the hurt there.

 

“I mean, it’s not required,” McCoy said quickly. “But you did a good job. Thank you, Chekov.”

 

Chekov bent a little at the waist in an acknowledging bow.

 

“Right. Okay. Let’s get back to sickbay.”

 

McCoy led the way down the corridors, and Chekov trailed him, a silent shadow. “I’ll ask Christine to check your vitals today, see if you’re ready for mess hall food.” Chekov, of course, didn’t answer.

 

“Now listen. I want you to remember you’re not my prisoner. You don’t have to mope around sickbay all day. Until we can…” McCoy hadn’t exactly thought that far. He would keep an eye on Chekov until he fixed the mutism? Until he figured out what caused the amnesia? Until the post-traumatic stress symptoms abated? Until he finally convinced the kid he wasn’t his master? “One step at a time,” he muttered. “I want you to meet a few more people, see more of the ship. Something might jog your memory. Besides, you need something to occupy that busy mind of yours. Lieutenant Uhura’s agreed to do some language testing with you.”

 

A wrinkle of worry appeared between Chekov’s eyes, and McCoy reminded himself that Chekov didn’t know Uhura, or anyone else for that matter. “Don’t worry, you’ll like her. Or at least, she’ll like you. She already likes you. The two of you got along well before… Well, you’ll get along.”

 

Chekov nodded gamely, as if he could actually make sense of McCoy’s rambling.

 

“And Chekov? About Sulu… That’s the man who came into sickbay yesterday… The one you punched.”

 

Chekov nodded and ducked his head sheepishly. He remembered.

 

“Would you mind if he came to see you? The two of you were friends, once. Good friends. I know he misses you. You don’t have to see him if you don’t want--.”

 

But Chekov was nodding and pulling in his hand in a welcoming gesture.

 

“Thanks,” McCoy said. He was relieved he wouldn’t have to turn Sulu away. The man had been distraught enough after their initial reunion that McCoy didn’t want to think about the consequences if he didn’t give Sulu another chance today to patch things up. “If something happens you don’t like, or you want to stop talking to him, just come find me. Remember, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, even if you think it’s what one of us wants. That clear?”

 

Chekov nodded yes.  
\--

 

Pasha didn’t understand Hikaru Sulu. He was obviously a strong man, and if Pasha hadn’t been out of his mind with fear yesterday, he would have thought twice before attacking him. Pasha wasn’t sure why Sulu hadn’t stopped him or fought back; Christine, in her chatting this morning, filling him in on all the crew members he was supposed to have known, had mentioned that Sulu had extensive hand to hand training, and had been known to go after the enemy with bare hands, or even a sword. Sulu could easily have killed him yesterday, and in Pasha’s experience, many free men would have quickly done so in response to a slave’s striking them. But Sulu was nothing like any free man Pasha had ever encountered.

 

“I wanted to apologize about yesterday,” was the first thing Sulu said to him when they sat down together in the mess hall, which was nearly deserted at mid-morning. Christine had cleared him for real food today, so Sulu had ordered them both some sort of potato pastry he evidently expected Pasha to enjoy. Pasha nibbled at the food as Sulu spoke.

 

“Kirk told me I should talk to McCoy before I tried to see you, but I was just so happy you were alive, I couldn’t wait… I shouldn’t have barged in on you like that, and I definitely deserved a fist in the face. So, sorry for that.”

 

Pasha furrowed his brow. No free man should be apologizing to him. Still, Sulu seemed to want some response, so he tried nodding, and got a smile in return.

 

“McCoy said you weren’t talking. Don’t worry, he’s a great doctor. He’ll figure out the problem. You used to say… Well, you used to say a lot of things about him. I don’t know, is it weird to tell you things you told me?”

 

Pasha cocked his head to the side, curiously. He pointed in the direction of the main sickbay with one hand, to himself with the other, then brought his two hands together in front of him.

 

“Were you close?”

 

Pasha nodded.

 

“Not exactly. Not in the way… Well, you used to hang out in sickbay a lot. Not that you were sick often. But you’d make excuses to go down there and tinker with something. You were always finding new, better ways to do things on the ship. You’re a genius, you know?”

 

Pasha raised his eyebrows skeptically.

 

“It’s true. Youngest Constitution-class bridge officer in the fleet. One of the youngest Academy graduates of all time. You were certainly higher on Pike’s first round draft pick list than I was.”

 

Pasha nodded politely, but he couldn’t made heads or tails of Sulu’s explanation beyond the fact that he sounded emphatically convinced of Chekov’s supposed genius. In truth, Pasha was getting a little tired of hearing of all the wonderful things this Chekov was supposed to have done. Even if McCoy and all the others addressed him as such, he didn’t feel like that person. He _wasn’t_ that person.

 

“Sorry. It’s rude, talking about people you don’t know.” Sulu took a bite of the pastry in front of him. They both chewed in silence for several seconds. Sulu seemed to realize that he should change the subject, so he said, “The captain is going to want to talk to you, eventually. I think he wants to know more about how slaves are sold on Bussar. We’re trying to catch the people who took you away from us. We’ve been trying for a year now.”

 

Pasha didn’t have a response for that, so he took another little bite of his pastry. _The people who took you away from us._ McCoy had also said made a similar claim, earlier. Pasha wondered what motivation his master would have for bringing Sulu in on his lie. There might be some truth to what they’d said, or they might have other reasons for wanting him to give up information about the trade.

 

“I know this is weird,” Sulu said. “All of this must seem surreal to you. So what do you want to know? What should I tell you about?”

 

There was no doubt where Pasha’s greatest curiosity lay. He pointed out toward the hall.

 

“Uh… the ship?”

 

Pasha shook his head. He put his hand out to the side, to indicate the height of a man.

 

“A person. Okay, okay.”

 

Pasha arranged his face into an exaggerated scowl.

 

“Bones!” Sulu laughed. “McCoy. Hey, you’ve got that down. So Doctor McCoy. Why am I not surprised that you want to know more about him.” Sulu settled back in his chair. “So. McCoy’s from Earth, from a place called Georgia.”  
\--

 

It wasn’t until McCoy was washing the viscous fluid off his hands that he caught sight of a chronometer. His shift had ended more than an hour ago. Uhura’s shift had already started—she had planned to go right there from her lesson with Chekov. He walked to the bridge as fast as was dignified.

 

Jim looked over from where he was bent over some figures at the science station with Spock. “Bones! To what do we owe the pleasure?”

 

“Just a quick errand.” McCoy said, waving him off. He headed straight for the communications station. “Lieutenant Uhura. Where is he?”

 

Uhura looked up from her work. She didn’t need to ask who he meant. “In Engineering with Mister Scott.”

 

“Engineering.” McCoy shouldn’t be so concerned with Chekov’s whereabouts every minutes; it was unlikely that anything would befall him on the Enterprise. But he didn’t like to think of Chekov wandering the lonely halls of the ship by himself. “How did it go today?”

 

“Very well, actually. He and Sulu talked for almost an hour.”

 

“He _talked_ to Sulu?”

 

“No,” she corrected herself quickly. “No. Sulu talked to him. But neither of them threw a punch, so I count the exchange a victory.”

 

“Well. Yes.” McCoy chanced a look over to the helm, where Sulu was absorbed in his work. Hard to tell from here, but McCoy liked to think he didn’t have as much of the hurt, haunted look he’d worn yesterday.

 

“Chekov did well with the tests I gave him,” Uhura went on. “It seems there’s nothing wrong with his language learning abilities, or his memory of languages, come to that. He recognized all six languages listed in his file. He can read, too, but he can’t write. Drawing is fine, but he can’t make letters.”

 

“He can’t generate language,” McCoy said thoughtfully. “Sounds like a brain injury.” Something he’d missed on his scans earlier? He’d have to run more tests.

 

“If…” Uhura began.

 

“What is it?”

 

“If he won’t be able to talk for a while yet…” She glanced up at him, almost apologetic.

 

“It’s temporary.” Not forever. McCoy would find a way to fix him.

 

“Of course,” Uhura said, although she didn’t sound convinced. “If you like, I could work with him on one of the standard non-verbal languages,” she said.

 

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Engineering, you said?”  
\--

 

“No, see, I’ve tried that with the containment field. The math doesn’t work out!”

 

Montgomery Scott’s voice carried across the engineering deck halfway to the turbo lift. His rants were punctuated with odd pauses, and when McCoy finally got close enough to look down from the walkway to the desk where Scott worked his technical witchcraft, he saw why. Chekov sat beside Scotty, gesturing emphatically to the jumbled spread of padds and engine parts before them.

 

“Well no, I hadn’t exactly,” Scott said. “Ahh.”

 

Chekov pointed to an oblong metal object on the table, then grabbed the stylus from Scotty’s hand and scrawled something on the control panel built into the desk.

 

“If you…Wait, why there?”

 

Chekov tapped his finger against the drawing he’d made, then made a motion like picking fruit from a tree.

 

“Aye,” Scotty said slowly. “That just might work.”

 

McCoy made his way down the stairs and approached the workbench where Chekov now leaned over Scotty’s shoulder watching in fascination as the engineer entered some complex equation into his padd.

 

McCoy cleared his throat gently. Scotty ignored him, but Chekov’s head snapped up immediately. He smiled when he saw who their visitor was, and bounded over to grab McCoy’s hand and press it to his forehead in greeting.

 

“Glad to see Mister Scott hasn’t accidentally beamed you into oblivion.”

 

“I am positively wounded, doctor,” Scotty said. “The lad was just helping me work out a little repair problem.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

Chekov blushed.

 

“Hey… Do you remember, say, classes in any of that stuff? Transporter theory? Seminar on subspace particle interference? Whatever the hell it is navigation prodigies take?”

 

Chekov shook his head ruefully.

 

“Well, it didn’t hurt to ask.”

 

“He’s just a natural, doctor. Sometimes the untrained eye can see a better solution because the mind’s not polluted with all the rules, so to speak. This one’s always had a knack for problem solving.” Scott slapped Chekov on the back fondly.

 

“That’s great,” McCoy said hollowly. Great, but not enough. Chekov might have a brilliant mind beneath all that conditioning, but that didn’t make him _whole_. For the first time, McCoy considered what would happen if he couldn’t fix Chekov. The kid certainly wouldn’t be allowed to stay on the Enterprise. At twenty, he wasn’t too old to start over again, assuming he got his voice back, and assuming that the post-traumatic stress symptoms wouldn’t always prevent him from functioning normally, and assuming that Starfleet was willing to invest in training him a second time, and and and. More likely he’d be sent to a rest facility for Starfleet personnel injured in the line of duty. Some cold, soulless starbase where the Fleet filed away all its failures. Or they might send him home to his family, of whom he had no memory, to be exiled forever from the stars he loved.

 

“Doctor?” Scotty prompted. “Are you quite alright?”

 

McCoy shook himself out of his paranoid fantasy to see Chekov blinking up at him with wide-eyed concern.

 

“Yeah, fine, fine,” he said quickly.

 

Chekov came closer, tapped a finger against McCoy’s mouth and then his belly, and gave him a look of pointed inquiry.

 

“No, I haven’t eaten anything since my shift started,” McCoy admitted.

 

Chekov heaved a sigh that could definitely be described as long-suffering, and tugged at McCoy’s elbow.

 

“Right on,” Scotty said. “Get that man a sandwich. I’ll see you later Chekov, yeah?”  
\--

 

Pasha suppressed the urge to wriggle. McCoy’s narrow bed made maintaining a respectful distance from his master difficult. Still, he was grateful. Lying in bed with McCoy after a long day, he could almost believe in the fantasy he’d spun for himself: that they’d done this many nights before, that they both belonged on the Enterprise, and that Pasha had some useful skill to offer besides what he could do in the bedroom.

 

That last thought was a bitter reminder that McCoy had no use for him. The other members of the crew had been kind to him. Uhura, Scotty, and especially Sulu had treated him like an old friend, even if it was clear from their reactions that Chekov wasn’t capable of all they expected from him. Only McCoy kept him at a distance. McCoy only got close to him to examine him for medical reasons: no touch more personal than a press of his fingers to the skin of Pasha’s arm or his hand holding Pasha up from a proper kneel. Since every night he could remember, except these last few, had been spent in service, it felt strange and empty, not to be touched. Pasha would welcome a slap at this point: anything to prove McCoy cared.

 

Pasha imagined what McCoy would be like, if he did want him. His large hands would be sure and gentle as they touched him. His solid weight would be a comfort, covering Pasha, protecting him. His voice, that gravely rumble when he spoke low, would encourage him, urge him on as Pasha took him in, would break in pleasure at how Pasha could make him feel.

 

Pasha fisted his hands in the sheets and squeezed his eyes closed. His persistent erection leaked against the soft material of the sleep pants his master had given him. Pasha’s arousal was not for McCoy’s pleasure: Pasha had the impression that McCoy wouldn’t approve. No, to Pasha’s shame, he’d worked himself into this with thought alone, fantasizing about personal desires to which he had no right.

 

Pasha slid silently out of bed, paused to make sure he hadn’t awoken McCoy, slipped into the bathroom, and eased the door shut behind him. Usually the Enterprise felt cold, but tonight Pasha’s skin burned. He stripped off his shirt and let it drop to the floor. In the mirror he caught a glimpse of himself: pale skin marred by fading bruises and other signs of abuse. He quickly turned away, not wanting to spoil the illusion that he was a good slave who’d earned reward, not punishment.

 

He dropped to his knees, letting out a harsh breath at the palpable feeling of _safety_ this position brought him. He held still and tried to will himself calm, will away his selfish desires. Thoughts and images of McCoy clung to him, as did the smell of the man, rubbed off on the sheets and now branded on Pasha’s skin, as keen a claim as the collar had ever been. Trying not to think about McCoy was impossible. If Pasha couldn’t defeat his need, he had to address it.

 

Pasha squeezed his eyes shut and curled forward to press his chest to the floor. He pulled his sleep pants down the upturned curve of his ass. In his mind’s eye, McCoy was pleased with him for being so soft, so pretty, so obedient. He imagined a genuine smile, McCoy’s hand smoothing over his naked back, the muttered words, “Good, darlin.” His hips stuttered forward, and Pasha clamped a hand around the base of his erection, unwilling for this to be over so soon.

 

He slid two fingers of his free hand into his mouth and then reached back awkwardly to press first one, then both, inside. His hands were smaller than McCoy’s, but he could imagine the gentle stretch as McCoy fingered him open, always capable, always thorough. It wouldn’t hurt, with him. He would touch Pasha the same way he looked at him, as if he might disappear at any moment.

 

Pasha wanted to tell him yes, say “harder,” convince his master he wouldn’t easily break. Instead, he shoved back against his fingers, taking them deeper, and slid his hand down his cock, shuddering as he imagined McCoy’s touch in its place.

 

“Chekov?” A tap sounded on the bathroom door.

 

His hips slammed forward, pushing his cock through the circle of his hand as it jerked, spilling his release onto the floor.

 

“Kid?” McCoy knocked again. “You in there?”

 

Pasha scrambled to his feet and groped frantically for a towel. He wiped first himself, then the floor as fast as he could with hands that shook from rushing adrenaline. As McCoy knocked again, he threw on his clothes and tried to claw his hair into a semblance of order.

 

“Chekov? Something wrong?”

 

After taking one last glance around the tiny room to make sure he’d hidden the evidence of his crime, Pasha pulled open the door.

 

McCoy, with rumbled sleep clothes and tousled hair, stepped in and looked him over. “Is everything okay? When I saw you weren’t in the room, I--.” He frowned suspiciously. “Are you sick? You look flushed.”

 

Pasha shook his head frantically, but McCoy grabbed Pasha’s wrist and pressed two fingers to the vein there. “Your pulse is racing. What’s wrong?”

 

Pasha snatched his hand away. McCoy’s eyes flicked over him, cataloguing symptoms, no doubt, and they caught on his shirt. Pasha glanced down, realized he’d pulled the damn thing on inside out in his haste, and glanced back up in time to see McCoy’s expression bloom into realization. McCoy was no fool. Once he’d found a hint he quickly uncovered other clues: the towel crumpled near the sink, the shiny-damp spot on the floor, the acrid scent of sex, Pasha’s face red with humiliation.

 

“Oh,” McCoy said. “Sorry to…” He shifted his weight from one foot from the other, and didn’t quite look Pasha in the eye. “I’ll give you some privacy.” He fled the room and closed the door behind him.

 

Pasha sank back down to the floor and wrapped his arms around himself until his shaking subsided. His master had witnessed his selfish, shameless depravity, and now any hope of McCoy’s growing to want him had been dashed. Pasha wasn’t a good slave after all, at least not for as kind and lenient a master as this one. He splashed cold water on his face and tried to scrub from his hands the stains of another failure. Eventually he’d calmed himself enough to slip back out into the darkness of the bedroom.

 

A sliver of light from the bathroom doorway fell across the bed, illuminating McCoy stretched out under the covers, facing away. Pasha eased the door closed and slunk over to the corner. He lay down on the rug where he’d slept that first night.

 

Across the room, McCoy sat up and squinted through the darkness at him. “Christ kid. You can come sleep in the bed.”

 

Pasha sprang to his feet and slunk back to the bed. In the low light McCoy’s expression was difficult to read, but he looked sad. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he muttered. He patted the empty side of the bed, and Pasha lay down, trying to take up as little room as possible.

 

McCoy pulled the covers up over them both. His hand landed at Pasha’s shoulder. “Chekov… No one here is going to punish you.” He fell silent for so long that Pasha thought he might be finished. Then he said, “I don’t want you to be afraid. Not of me, and not of anyone else on this ship. I won’t let harm come to you, understand?”

 

Pasha nodded solemnly.

 

McCoy pulled his hand away from Pasha’s shoulder and turned over, leaving Pasha to his thoughts. He lay awake a long time, thinking, but he never heard McCoy’s breath even out into the easy pattern of sleep.  
\--

 

McCoy was never happy to see Spock, and today was no exception. At least Chekov was with Uhura again this morning, so he didn’t have to worry about him picking up on McCoy’s agitation. He snatched a tricorder from the shelf and strode over to scan some tissue samples, trying to project “go away” with every fiber of his being. “I’m busy, commander. Unless you’ve got some good news--.”

 

“Doctor.” Spock strode after him without missing a beat. “As first officer it is my duty to take an interest in the safety of the crew. It has come to my attention that you’re spending much of your off duty time with Pavel Chekov.”

 

“Yes,” McCoy scowled.

 

“I came to sickbay last night after alpha shift and was informed that Chekov was spending the night in your quarters.”

 

McCoy couldn’t decide whether to blush or punch Spock’s nose right out of where it didn’t belong. “You—I--.”

 

“My intention is not to impugn your morals, Doctor,” Spock said quickly. “Mister Chekov sees you as his rescuer and owner, so it is only logical he should feel safer in your presence.” Spock hesitated only a few seconds, but to McCoy the crack in the first officer’s otherwise impenetrable façade amounted to red flag of distress. “Chekov’s safety is my chief concern. You must do whatever you can to put him at ease.”

 

The tight knot in McCoy’s stomach started gnawing at his spine. “You had Chekov as a student, at the Academy.”

 

“Yes. Advanced Tactics Seminar.”

 

“Yes.” So the damn Vulcan did care, in his own way, about Chekov. “Well. I’m doing the best I can.”

 

“I agree that of all the personnel on the ship, you are most well-qualified to handle this challenge.”

 

“Is that a vote of confidence?”

 

Spock inclined his head, demurring. “I heard that Chekov is unable to speak.”

 

“That’s right,” he snapped. There was no reason in particular why Spock’s knowledge of Chekov’s condition should annoy him, but a strange protectiveness made him resent Spock’s coming in here talking about it like he knew what the kid had gone through.

 

“In recent days we’ve pieced together more information about the traders who originally abducted Chekov,” Spock said.

 

“That’s all well and good, but it doesn’t help us here and now.”

 

“It may, doctor. We believe the ship on which he was originally held was crewed by Usites.”

 

“Uh huh.” McCoy had heard of them, and he paused to try to remember the specifics.

 

“They’re telepaths, doctor. Their abilities are similar to those of Vulcans, but more highly developed, and trained for different uses.”

 

“What sort of different uses?”

 

“The Usites have shared little information on that point. However, I have a theory regarding their treatment of Chekov.”

 

Now McCoy was listening. “You think they might have done something to shut him up, you mean.” He laid his tricorder on the table. “He did say it was a punishment of some sort.”

 

Spock inclined his head in agreement. “It’s possible I will be able to correct the problem.”

 

“Correct the problem,” McCoy said slowly. He was starting to see where this was headed. “Spock, if it was a telepath who did this to him, he is not going to want to meld.”

 

“As chief medical officer, it is your duty to counsel your patients about procedures which will benefit their health.”

 

He bristled. “I don’t see how forcing Chekov to re-live a traumatic--.”

 

“I have no intention of forcing Mister Chekov to do anything,” Spock said sharply.

 

“Of course not,” McCoy snapped back. In three years of service together, McCoy had learned to read Spock much better. He understood how Spock hated to be thought as indifferent to the welfare of his crew. Spock was fiercely loyal in his way. Although no one brought out that side of Spock better than Jim, McCoy could tell when he’d touched a nerve. “I’m telling you he’s going to be scared.”

 

“The meld itself is painless,” Spock explained. “If I am successful, we may not only be able to restore the ensign’s speech, but also find some indication as to the cause of his memory loss.”

 

“He’s just starting to trust me.”

 

“I fail to see how that figures in your medical analysis of his condition.”

 

“He’s a trauma victim, you unfeeling lizard!” Loyalty or not, McCoy didn’t appreciate Spock’s implication that he was letting his emotions get the best of his medical opinion. “We’re lucky he hasn’t suffered a psychotic break, considering the strain he’s been under. Push him now, and you could damage him permanently.”

 

“Your point is sound, Doctor. If you see another method of determining the cause of Mister Chekov’s condition, I am willing to consider it.”

 

McCoy clenched his fists until his knuckles hurt. “No. You’re right.” He’d ruled out brain injuries, and re-introducing him to familiar people and places seemed to have no effect. McCoy was running out of ideas. “Nothing else has worked.”

 

He thought of the Chekov who’d been his crewmate a year ago: lively, happy, and brilliant. If there was a chance of getting that Chekov back, could McCoy really refuse and condemn him to live out his life in a world where he’d always feel out of place? Whatever Spock thought, McCoy resolved that the choice had to be Chekov’s. He couldn’t let further harm come to Chekov, but he also couldn’t deprive him of a chance at something more. “Okay Spock. We’ll ask him.”  
\--

 

Uhura had said with a cunningly raised eyebrow, “I sent him back to your quarters,” when asked, so that’s where McCoy brought Spock. Sure enough, Chekov was there, sitting cross-legged next to McCoy’s desk and frowning in concentration at a padd from Engineering clutched in both hands.

 

“Chekov.”

 

He beamed when he saw McCoy, but the smile dimmed somewhat when he caught sight of Spock standing in the doorway.

 

“It’s okay.” McCoy put on the calm, gentle voice he’d become accustomed to using around Chekov. “This is Mister Spock. He’s the ship’s first officer and a… friend of mine.”

 

Chekov set the padd aside slowly. He didn’t scamper off into a corner, but McCoy recognized the way he gathered in on himself; he wanted to run and hide, but he wouldn’t, because his _master_ didn’t want him to. The discipline and self-control required to govern those impulses were great. It reminded McCoy that Chekov wasn’t some weak, wilting flower. He was a brave, strong man who’d had his mind tampered with, and he was doing his best to survive in a nightmarish situation.

 

“I want to ask your permission for something,” McCoy said. He knew Chekov felt most comfortable on the floor, so he joined him there, lowering himself down on stiff joints. “You remember when we talked about why you can’t speak?”

 

Chekov nodded and put his hand to his throat. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out.

 

“Right right. You want to talk, but you can’t. There’s nothing medically wrong with you that I can find, which made us think they must have done something inside your head.”

 

Chekov nodded tentatively, as if this wasn’t exactly news to him.

 

“Well Spock here,” McCoy clapped him on the shoulder. “Is a bit of a telepath. I want him to see if he can fix whatever’s been keeping you from speaking.”

 

Chekov’s face fell from wary interest to a spiraling descent into panic. He shrank back against the wall and his eyes locked on Spock, staring at him as if he were some fairy tale monster.

 

“I will not harm you,” Spock said, calm as ever. “The meld itself is painless. I will not intrude upon your mind any further than necessary.”

 

Chekov shook his head frantically, then shot a pleading look at McCoy before prostrating himself on the floor.

 

“Hey kid, come on. I only suggested this because I thought Spock might be able to help. I don’t know how else to fix you, Chekov.”

 

He trembled under McCoy’s hand.

 

“I didn’t mean fix, damnit. You’re not broken. But he can help you.”

 

Chekov sat up. He couldn’t lift his eyes to look at Spock, but he edged as close to McCoy as possible without actually sitting in his lap.

 

Chekov touched his fingertips to his forehead, then pulled his hand away quickly: a sharp, tearing gesture.

 

“They hurt you.” McCoy swallowed hard. Chekov’s explaining that was the closest he’d come to confiding in anyone. “They hurt your mind.”

 

Chekov nodded.

 

“I will not initiate a mind meld with an unwilling participant,” Spock said. He lowered himself to a crouch, aligned with Chekov’s eye level but maintaining a non-threatening distance. “Such an action would be a gross violation of the ethics of my people.”

 

“Hey.” McCoy put his hands on Chekov’s shoulders. “I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

 

Chekov nodded solemnly, locking eyes with McCoy. The unwavering trust McCoy saw there floored him. Chekov turned toward Spock and nodded again.  
\--

 

“I want to make certain we understand each other,” Spock said. Chekov’s body language betrayed great anxiety, and Spock had no desire to add to his unease or risk traumatizing him further. “Are you agreeing to let me into your mind?”

 

Chekov nodded once, shortly. Then he shifted, turning around to seat himself between McCoy’s knees, his back pressed to the doctor’s front. Somehow he’d managed to pull McCoy’s arms around his waist, and now their hands tangled against Chekov’s belly.

 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Doctor, if you are touching Mister Chekov when I initiate the meld, I may be unable to prevent your entanglement in our connection.”

 

Chekov tightened his grip on McCoy’s hands until it elicited a grunt of pain. “Okay, kid.” McCoy settled back against the wall, taking Chekov with him. “I’m not going anywhere. Spock, is that going to be a problem?”

 

“It should not jeopardize the achievement of our objective, no,” Spock said mildly. When he’d found out that Chekov was staying in McCoy’s quarters, he hadn’t realized the extent of the personal attachment the doctor had to Chekov. However, such attachment could only help their efforts now. “A comfortable position is best.”

 

“Chekov. You ready?” McCoy asked.

 

Chekov nodded once, though Spock could see him shaking in McCoy’s arms.

 

“Chekov.” Spock waited until he had the man’s attention. “I will not harm you.”

 

He settled tighter against McCoy and pressed his mouth into a thin line. Spock inferred that Chekov did not believe him, but then clearly he had not earned the same level of trust as McCoy had.

 

“Nice and easy, Spock. We’re just worried about the speech for now.”

 

Spock settled himself on the floor before Chekov and reached forward to place his fingers along the side of Chekov’s face. “My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts.”

 

He closed his eyes and concentrated his attention on Chekov. Through the focus of his touch, he was able to enter Chekov’s mind. The initial joining of two consciousnesses was disorienting, as usual. Chekov’s mind jostled around him, agitated, brimming with indistinct images and half-articulated thoughts in at least two languages. Spock searched for the motor speech area of the brain, intending to evaluate any apparent damage, but, in doing so, was assaulted by a memory.

 

_A backhand blow sent Pasha sprawling to the ground. He spat out a mouthful of blood before looking up at his tormenter. “I will not,” he said. He managed to keep his voice steady, despite the pain._

__

 

_“It can’t even speak properly. Why does it continue to resist?” The man—Master—moved again, and Pasha barely got his hands up in time to deflect the first kick. He wasn’t fast enough to block the second blow, and Master’s boot caught him in the ribs._

__

 

_Pasha couldn’t breathe through the pain, and another kick in the same spot sent him scrambling away across the floor, curling up defensively. Master kicked him twice more, and Chekov could do nothing but wait for the sharp, stabbing pain to subside. At last Master moved away, and Pasha could gulp in air, fighting past the sharp ache in his chest and the nausea in his belly._

__

 

_Master returned to kneel next to Pasha, and touched his cheek gently. “It is ready to behave?”_

__

 

 _Pasha coughed a few times, spitting up blood against before he could form his retort. “Konechna,” he chuckled, despite the pain it cost him. “Ne pizdi,_ sir _.” Pasha squeezed his eyes shut, but he knew Master was frowning._

__

 

_“Perhaps it wants a gag.”_

 

The memory tilted and swirled away, leaving Spock disoriented until another memory seized him.

_”Does it even know what it is?” Master—a different lifeform, a woman, but Master all the same—  
tightened a hand on his shoulder to keep him on his knees._

__

 

_“I am a person,” Pasha snarled. He tried again to move, but with his hands bound he overbalanced and fell, landing painfully on his side._

__

 

_“A person?” Master sounded amused. She planted a foot on Pasha’s back to pin him to the floor. “Does this person have a name?”_

__

 

_“Pasha,” he growled. He struggled to roll away from her, but she flicked the tip of the whip she carried against his bare ass, and he stilled._

__

 

_“Pasha,” she repeated. “And where does that name come from?”_

__

 

_“I…” He couldn’t remember. He didn’t know._

__

 

_“Did its parents call it this? Does it even have parents?”_

__

 

_No. He didn’t know that either. Shouldn’t he know?_

__

 

_“Oh poor, poor Pasha. It thinks it’s so smart, but it is really quite a stupid creature.” She came to sit on his back, and ruffled his hair. “The masters gave it this name to tell it apart from our other pets. That is all. It knows this name because that’s what we call it.”_

__

 

_“No,” Pasha protested. That didn’t seem right, somehow, but he wasn’t smart enough to come up with a reason why._

__

 

_“Does it want to know what the name means?” She stood and used her foot to nudge Pasha onto his back before settling on the floor beside him. She traced her fingers along his naked side, from his thigh up to his neck. “If it promises to be good today, I shall tell it.”_

__

 

_Pasha closed his eyes and tried to remember his name. Shouldn’t there be more to it than one word? Was Pasha what his parents called him? He had to have parents. He couldn’t remember them. He couldn’t remember anything before coming here. For all he knew, he was born here, some type of lower lifeform his masters bred for pleasure and sport. Master was right; he wasn’t smart enough to counter her argument. “I promise,” he said._

__

 

_Master’s hands tangled in his hair, pulling painfully._

__

 

_“I promise, Master,” he said quickly._

__

 

_She relented, and traced her hand back down his body. “Pasha is a form of a name that means small.” She wrapped her hand around his soft penis and squeezed painfully. “Humble. It’s small and humble, isn’t it?”_

__

 

_Pasha had nothing to say to that._

 

Another slide and swirl of memories, and Spock was swept in a different direction.

 

_“It doesn’t say no,” Master hissed._

__

 

_Pasha struggled under the body of this master—the worst one yet. “Stop. Don’t!” he shouted. He knew he would be punished for struggling, but it hurt, and he was scared, and he didn’t understand what was happening. Master was on top of him, inside him, and Pasha was too weak to shake him off. But he could still fight. “No! Let me go! Stop…”_

__

 

_Master moved inside of him, and the pain stole his voice for an instant. Then Master began moving faster, and Pasha couldn’t form words at all. But he could scream: a never-ending, desperate howl that poured out of him like blood from a wound._

__

 

_“I warned you,” Master growled against his nape. His fingers wrapped around Pasha’s neck, and then Master was inside Pasha’s mind, squeezing there as surely as his fingers squeezed Pasha’s throat. His scream was cut off. He couldn’t make any noise, no matter how he tried. He could only thrash silently, frantically, as Master took his pleasure._

 

Spock saw the blockage, then, like a barricade closing off Chekov’s control of language. A careful, firm nudge from Spock broke the barrier, and Chekov’s mind rippled around him as it struggled to adjust. For a moment, all was calm and silence inside the meld. Then noise battered Spock from every side as a scream burst out from Chekov, as fierce as an animal kept too long in a cage.

 

“Spock!” The doctor’s voice startled him. “What in the name of blue blazes are you doing to him?”

 

McCoy’s interruption threw him off balance. Though he’d known the doctor’s physical proximity might allow such a thing, he hadn’t been prepared for McCoy to react so strongly to what they’d both seen.

 

“Damnit man, get out of there!”

 

Spock tried to tune out the continuing noise of Chekov’s scream and the other insistent feedback from the meld as he drifted further into the labyrinth of Chekov’s mind. A tantalizing puzzle waited there, just out of reach. If he could just delve a little further, he was certain he could uncover the cause of Chekov’s amnesia.

 

“You are _hurting_ him. Spock, please.”

 

Through the meld, Chekov’s building panic pulled at Spock. Their twined minds tumbled and swirled, and for a moment Spock was concerned that he might have difficulty extracting himself from the meld. But a third presence, dim and distant but undeniable, held Chekov’s mind, anchoring him to his body, and Spock was able to withdraw.

 

When Spock again became aware of his own body, the screaming hadn’t stopped. It echoed in his physical ears as much as it had in his mental awareness. Chekov thrashed in McCoy’s arms, spitting out an incomprehensible mix of Russian and Standard.

 

McCoy’s face was drawn, his jaw clenched tight. “Spock, a little help?”

 

Spock leaned forward, and Chekov wailed in panic. However, the proper pressure applied to his neck sent him dropping back bonelessly against McCoy, unconscious.

 

“A hypospray would have done the job,” McCoy grumbled.

 

“This was more expedient.”

 

Both men turned their attention to Chekov. His face was slack, but sweat plastered his curls to his forehead. McCoy brushed a hand across his face to tame the stray hair. “At least you got his voice back, after a fashion,” McCoy said grudgingly.

 

Spock nodded. He hoped the victory was worth the agitation it had caused. “You seemed to be experiencing the meld in a limited capacity. Did you see the memories Mister Chekov recalled?”

 

“I saw enough,” McCoy said tightly. “What exactly did those bastards do to him?”

 

Spock looked down at the blissfully unconscious man. “I do not know.”  



	6. Chapter 6

Pasha woke up in sickbay again. McCoy sat sprawled in a chair next to his bed, head dropped back against the wall, asleep. Thicker-than-usual stubble decorated the doctor’s face, and his uniform was rumpled. Pasha saw no one else in the room, not even another patient. With surprise, he registered that McCoy must be here for him.

 

He pulled himself upright in bed as he tried to recall why he was here. He’d been in McCoy’s quarters. That strange man—Spock— who wore a uniform like McCoy’s but displayed none of the doctor’s warmth, had asked his permission to… The pain and distress of old memories crowded up and threatened to choke Pasha. “No,” he croaked. The voice that came out of his mouth sounded rough and foreign. Pasha had gone so long without speaking that the sound startled him.

 

In his chair, McCoy jerked awake. Pasha bowed his head to apologize for having disturbed him, but McCoy was already out of his chair and scanning Pasha with that glowing, beeping instrument he used so often.

 

“Good to see you up, kid. You feeling okay?”

 

Pasha nodded, and tested his voice again with, “Yes.”

 

McCoy’s head snapped up to look at him. “So it _did_ work. I’ll be damned.” He glanced back down at his readout. “Does it hurt to talk?”

 

“No, I feel… I feel fine, m--. Sir.” He didn’t know what to say or how to speak to McCoy. At times, when watching fellow slaves struggled with the rules of when to speak, how to address their masters, and what words were most pleasing, Pasha had been glad he could not speak. Now, his sudden recovery opened up new and uncertain territory.

 

“I can’t believe that pointy-eared bastard pulled it off.” McCoy’s usual scowl had stretched into an almost smile. “Are you feeling any aftereffects of the meld?”

 

“I am not in pain,” Pasha said uncertainly.

 

“Chekov.” McCoy lowered the scanner and looked searchingly at him. “You know you can tell me if something is wrong.”

 

“Why do you call me Chekov?” Pasha hadn’t meant to ask out loud. He’d only been thinking it, but he wasn’t accustomed to having his voice back. He would have to re-learn how to guard his speech.

 

“Your name is Chekov,” McCoy said with a frown. “The scanner recognizes your DNA, see?” He turned the instrument around to show Pasha the glowing display: “Chekov, Pavel A” showed at the bottom of the screen.

 

Strange that even the technology in this place thought he was something he was not. “It is not what they call me,” Pasha said slowly.

 

“I saw.” McCoy’s expression soured.

 

Pasha didn’t understand for a moment until he thought back to the memories he’d relived when Spock had touched him. In his mind there had been a cold, alien presence, strolling through his memories like an unwelcome guest, but there had also been a strong, solid anchor encircling his mind even as McCoy’s arms had encircled his body. He remembered, vaguely, Spock’s warning to McCoy, that he might be drawn into the awareness of what they were doing, the “meld,” as Spock had described it. Pasha whispered, “You saw.”

 

McCoy nodded. “I saw enough.”

 

“Oh.” Shame and horror overwhelmed Pasha as he imagined what McCoy must think of him, to have seen him like that.

 

McCoy drifted closer to the bedside. “Do you want me to call you Pasha?” An involuntary flinch was enough to make McCoy draw away. “Okay. That’s a no. I like Chekov better anyway.” McCoy brought his scanner up again, like a shield. “Does your throat hurt?”

 

“No. Maybe,” Pasha said. “Not very much.” The quick flash of McCoy’s smile pulled him out of his misery. “What is it, doctor?”

 

“I guess I’d forgotten you had an accent,” McCoy said. “I missed it.”  
\--

 

“The subspace signal is leveling out, captain,” Uhura reported.

 

“Excellent,” Kirk said from the command chair. “Sulu, keep us within range of the signal, but far enough away that they won’t spot us. Kelso, see if you can figure out their trajectory and give us an idea of where they’re headed.”

 

Sulu’s “aye” blended with Kelso’s, but he barely noticed. Sulu focused all his concentration on the delicate job of keeping the Enterprise within range of Scotty’s improvised beacon while avoiding the long-range sensors of the slaver ship they were tracking. He knew these weren’t the same bastards who had first taken Chekov, but they might have information that would lead to them, and Sulu was keeping his sword sharpened for that day.

 

“Sir,” Kelso spoke up from his spot at the conn. “My best estimate of their heading is one thirty one mark six. They could be headed for Usia.”

 

“That’s a pretty long haul,” Kirk said.

 

“Ten days, sir,” Kelso answered.

 

“Like I said.” Kirk tapped his hand against the arm of the command chair. “Sulu, if we need to close with them, how long would it take us to catch up at this distance.”

 

“Minutes.” Sulu’s fingers flew over the controls of his station as he made the necessary calculations. “If they maintain their current speed and we went all ahead full, we could be on them in less than four minutes.”

 

“And if they spot us, they won’t maintain their current speed. Now…Where the hell is my first officer?” Kirk drummed his fingers against his chair again, impatiently this time. “Uhura--.”

 

“My apologies for my tardiness.” Spock appeared in the doorway as if summoned, and strode onto the bridge with his usual smooth assurance. “Captain, a word, please?”

 

The maneuvers Sulu was executing to keep them at the proper distance from their quarry were too intricate for him to turn around and watch the hushed conversation, but he couldn’t help but speculate. In the few days that Chekov had been on board, he couldn’t help but imagine all discussion revolved around their miraculously returned prodigal son. Kelso leaned across their joined stations and said, “You think we can catch them if they run?”

 

“We have to,” Sulu answered gravely.

 

“Mister Kelso,” Kirk raised his voice to call out orders. “Keep an eye on their heading. Sulu, maintain distance and keep us off their sensors. Uhura, if there’s any change in the signal, call me.” Kirk came over to the helm, dropped a hand on Sulu’s shoulder, and lowered his voice. “He’s talking. Come down to sick bay at the end of the shift.” He turned to go, calling over his shoulder, “Mister Spock, you have the bridge.”

 

Sulu stared after him for half a second before scrambling back to the controls to keep the Enterprise in its delicate balance. Spock loomed behind him. “Mister Sulu?”

 

Sulu sat straighter at his post. “It’s under control, sir.”  
\--

 

Not bringing Spock had been the right move. Since McCoy had recused himself from the proceedings—“He’ll spend the whole time worrying about what I want to hear.”—Chekov looked nervous enough even without an inscrutable Vulcan analyzing his every word. However, Kirk was starting to think he should have brought Sulu along, or someone who Chekov didn’t see as an authority figure. He hadn’t wanted Chekov to feel like he was being ganged up on, but this one-on-one chat wasn’t turning out as Kirk had planned. No matter how he tried to put Chekov at ease—joking with him, plying him with coffee, sitting closer, sitting further away—the man seemed freakishly immune to the Jim Kirk charm.

 

“What about on the Usite ship?” Kirk prompted. “What do you remember?”

 

“They were training us, sir.” Chekov sat stiffly in a chair at the briefing room table and didn’t meet Kirk’s eyes.

 

“Did they bring in any new prisoners while you were on board?”

 

“Yes. Two.”

 

Another short, perfunctory answer. Kirk reminded himself to give Chekov a commendation for withstanding interrogation. “What do you remember about them?”

 

“When they brought them on board, they told us what had happened: their ship had been disabled, and the Usites had signaled they wanted to help. Instead they captured them.”

 

“What kind of lifeforms? Humanoid?”

 

“Yes. Like a human, but…” Chekov frowned, considering. “The ears were different. Not like Mister Spock’s.”

 

“Okay.” Could be one of two dozen different species. “Go on.”

 

“It had been a family,” Chekov said haltingly, as if he was unsure how much he should share. “Settlers, they said. But our masters killed the parents and only brought aboard the son and his wife, who were perhaps as old as me.”

 

“What else?”

 

“They talked to us that night, but in the morning the masters took them away. When they brought them back, they did not know us. They did not know where they were or what had happened to them.” Chekov shifted uncomfortably. “They did not remember one another.”

 

They’d wiped their memories somehow, as they’d done to Chekov. But they hadn’t done it right away… “Chekov. If you remember their story, maybe someone remembers yours. Another prisoner, maybe, who met you when you were first taken.”

 

“Maybe yes,” he said warily. “Though, Captain, I do not want you to waste your time. If you want to catch them and take over their trade routes, I think there are different ways to get the information, and my story will not help you.”

 

Kirk blinked at Chekov while his assumptions jostled each other and rearranged themselves. “Excuse me?” he asked, because it was possible he hadn’t really heard.

 

“I will help you however you would like. I am only saying that I doubt my story will help you with your goal.”

 

“Chekov, we’re looking for the ship that took you because we want to stop them,” Kirk said slowly.

 

“Yes, I understand.”

 

Kirk was pretty sure that, however confident Chekov sounded for a change, that he really didn’t understand. “We want to find out how they capture their slaves because if we can find a pattern, then maybe we can prevent its happening to anyone else.”

 

Chekov frowned in confusion. “How would that help you?”

 

Kirk leaned back in his chair and pushed aside his impulse to analyze where, exactly, this conversation had gone way, way off the rails. Instead he asked, “Has anyone explained what this ship does?”

 

Chekov shook his head.

 

“The Enterprise is part of a humanitarian and peacekeeping armada,” he said, and swore that somewhere in the galaxy, Christopher Pike was laughing at him. “Part of our job is enforcing Federation law. And trafficking sentient beings is against Federation law.”

 

“I am a _criminal_?” Chekov asked in alarm.

 

“No, no,” Kirk said quickly. “The people who bought and sold you are criminals.”

 

“Doctor McCoy is not a criminal! He was only trying to help me,” Chekov snapped, his deference seemingly forgotten in his passionate defense of his de facto master. “And he didn’t even want to buy me in the first place, or to keep me, or even to lay a hand on me. He obviously knows not the first thing about owning a slave, so clearly he is no nefarious mastermind.”

 

“Agreed.” Kirk managed to keep the grin off his face. “He’s no criminal. But this ship, _Enterprise_ , exists to help people. We decided to go after those slavers even before we knew they had you.”

 

“Why?” Chekov sounded genuinely puzzled.

 

“Because it’s wrong. They’re exploiting people who can’t defend themselves.” And Kirk had always had a soft spot for an underdog. “We help people like that.”

 

“But why, sir? Why should it matter to you if you do not stand to profit?”

 

“Well.” Kirk considered how to explain what seemed to him a pretty basic concept. “You know McCoy’s our doctor, right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Bones is a healer through and through. He sees a person hurt, he feels compelled to help him, even if the person in question is lying unconscious on unstable ground during a firefight in an enemy territory with wild beasts roving nearby. Hypothetically speaking, of course. Understand?”

 

“Sort of,” Chekov said cautiously.

 

“McCoy has to heal. It’s in his blood, in his damn bones. It’s kind of like that with this whole ship. We see someone in trouble, we have to help.”

 

“How strange.”

 

“Yes.” When Chekov put it like that, the whole thing did sound a bit far-fetched. “I guess it is.” He clapped Chekov on the shoulder and said, “That’s all for now. Thanks for your help. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

 

Chekov stood up and nodded in acknowledgement. “I, too, am glad to be of service.”  
\--

 

Spock was coming down the hallway at Kirk, giving him a Very Significant Eyebrow, which meant alpha shift was already over, and someone else was running the bridge. A glance at a chronometer on the nearest wall console confirmed Kirk’s suspicions. He hadn’t realized how long it had been since he’d sent Chekov off to be someone else’s problem and sat in the briefing room alone, considering what to do about the slavers they were chasing.

 

When Spock reached him, he gave Kirk an acknowledging nod and said, “A word, Captain?”

 

“Sure,” Kirk said, resigning himself to more bad news. He followed Spock back into the briefing room and threw himself down in the nearest chair.

 

Spock didn’t sit. “Are you aware Chekov has been sleeping in the doctor’s quarters?”

 

No, he hadn’t exactly been aware, but then he hadn’t thought the doctor’s sleeping arrangements more his business. More interesting than the arrangements themselves were the fact that the first officer felt the need to comment on them. “Spock. Are you really trying to say that you think he’s doing something…” Kirk waved a hand. “Inappropriate? Bones is a southern gentleman. More than that, he’s… He wouldn’t do anything like that. You know him better than that. How could you think he was--.”

 

“I didn’t mean to imply that Doctor McCoy was taking advantage of the situation,” Spock said quickly. “I merely observed that he seems to have formed a close attachment to Mister Chekov and therefore may not be making the most objective decisions about his care.”

 

“What kind of decisions do you mean?”

 

Spock gracefully perched in the chair across from Kirk. “When I engaged in a meld with Mister Chekov, I was able to remove the barrier that prevented him from speaking.”

 

“Right,” Kirk said. “Great. So what’s the problem?”

 

“I believe that a barrier similar to the one I previously removed is preventing Chekov from accessing his memories. I have already proven the theory that a mind meld is an effective tool against such a barrier.”

 

“You’re saying you could bring his memories back with a mind meld? Spock, that’s great! Still not seeing the problem.”

 

Spock’s eyebrow dipped precariously. “The previous meld was upsetting to Mister Chekov.”

 

“Emotional transference.” Kirk remembered his first experience with a Vulcan mind meld, and how shaken he’d been afterwards by feelings not his own. “Did he see something he shouldn’t have? Memories of yours?”

 

“No. However in the course of the meld, I experienced memories of Mister Chekov’s as he recalled them.”

 

Kirk didn’t know much about melds, but from what he knew of Chekov’s recent experiences, those memories couldn’t have been happy ones. “Are you all right?”

 

“Of course,” Spock said, a little tersely. “However, re-living those memories disturbed Mister Chekov. Doctor McCoy advised me to terminate the meld because of Mister Chekov’s agitation. Therefore I was unable to ascertain the cause of the amnesia.”

 

“Bones had to have a good reason for wanting you to stop.” Kirk could picture the scene: a flustered McCoy ordering Spock to get his Vulcan hands off his damn patient.

 

“That is not in doubt. I acknowledge that continuing the meld when Mister Chekov was in distress would have been ill-advised. Mister Chekov understandably has difficulty in trusting strangers, and I did not wish to damage his estimation of me. However, I surmise that the strong attachment he has formed to the doctor was a deciding factor in his agreeing to the meld.”

 

“So what are you saying?”

 

“Making Mister Chekov more comfortable with his role on the Enterprise will reduce his anxiety about re-experiencing memories in the course of another meld. After experiencing Mister Chekov’s memories in a limited capacity, I believe that key to making him more comfortable is for Doctor McCoy to become more comfortable with his role.”

 

Kirk reviewed Spock’s statement twice, but still couldn’t unravel his purpose. “If you want to meld with him, he has to be willing to meld.”

 

“Correct.”

 

“And he’ll be willing to meld if…”

 

“If he is confident of his position on the Enterprise.”

 

“Meaning what?” Kirk was starting to get the idea that he was missing an important point here.

 

“If his relationship with Doctor McCoy conforms to his expectations, he will feel more secure in this environment,” Spock said, enunciating slowly and clearly as if correct articulation could convey his meaning where words could not.

 

“Would you quit with the double talk and tell me what you mean?”

 

Spock clasped his hands together tightly behind his back. “I do not wish to discuss the matter further.”

 

Kirk’s jaw dropped slowly open as that clue sent the rest of Spock’s comments clicking into place. _Comfortable with his role. Sleeping in McCoy’s quarters. Formed a strong attachment to the doctor._ “You cannot be serious.”

 

“I am merely relaying the impressions I received from my meld with Mister Chekov.”

 

Kirk couldn’t be sure, but he thought Spock was clenching his jaw more tightly than usual. “And have you talked to Bones about this?”

 

“No. Sir.”

 

“Yeah. I thought as much.” Kirk scrubbed a hand through his hair and glared at Spock. “You’re hoping I’ll talk to him about it.”

 

“I believed it was not appropriate for me to discuss such a matter with him.”

 

“I’ll bet.” Kirk said, but he saw Spock’s point. He didn’t think Bones would take kindly to a suggestion from the Vulcan that he have sex with his patient. “Okay then. I’ll see what I can do.”  
\--

 

After his interview with the captain, Pasha hunted down Uhura to ask for some more reading material. It was too early in the shift to bother his master, but he didn’t want to be left alone with his thoughts right now after the strange things Captain Kirk had told him. He’d rather make himself useful in some small way. Previously, Uhura had given him material she’d thought he’d like. Now that he’d been able to explain more clearly what he was interested in (“I want to know what I am supposed to know. What _he_ knew.” “He who?” “Chekov.”) Uhura had obliged with a veritable treasure trove of information on the part of Earth they said he was from: a country called Russia.

 

Pasha took his padd down to the mess hall. He nibbled on one of those pastries Sulu had introduced him to (“New foods slowly,” Christine had admonished, “Or you’ll be sick.”) and skipped from text to text until most of the shift had slipped away.

 

He tucked the padd under his arm and set off up to deck seven. The sick bay stood empty. Pasha followed the sound of voices back toward McCoy’s office. Through the open archway he caught a glimpse of Lieutenant Sulu talking to the doctor. He darted around the corner and pressed himself to the wall without knowing for certain why, except that hiding came as second nature to him. He desperately wanted to know what the two men were saying and if they were talking about him. He crept along the wall, always keeping an eye on the main med bay lest someone wander by and spot him.

 

“I only saw bits and pieces.” McCoy’s voice drifted clearly through the doorway. “Enough to get the idea. More than I ever wanted to see.”

 

“Is he okay?” That was Sulu’s voice. Chekov was surprised how familiar it sounded, but then again he’d been spending a significant amount of time with the man.

 

“I think so. This wasn’t exactly news to him, but I’m sure it couldn’t have been pleasant to relive the things they did to him.”

 

The meld. They had to be talking about him. Chekov held his breath, more determined than ever now to hear the rest of the conversation.

 

“What about you?” Sulu prompted. “I’ve never been inside a mind meld, but Kirk always said they were… intense.”

 

McCoy gave a sigh of a kind Chekov had never heard from him: unguarded and bone tired. “Are you off duty?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good. Have a drink with me.”

 

“That bad?”

 

The clinks of glasses and the musical sound of pouring liquid drifted through the doorway. “I never wanted to see anything like it. I’ve seen things before, but in that damn meld, I could _feel_ it.” McCoy’s voice was tight, almost pained. “If I hadn’t been so concerned with making sure Chekov held it together, I would have been sick.”

 

Pasha slumped against the wall as shame flooded through him. He disgusted McCoy.

 

“I don’t like to think of him like that,” McCoy continued. “I remember him as being so…”

 

“The kind of guy who could beam up two officers in freefall over a planet being sucked into a singularity?” Sulu offered.

 

“Exactly. Brilliant and confident and…” He fell silent for a moment, and Chekov found himself leaning closer to the doorway, straining to hear. “I’d just like to see _that_ Chekov again.”

 

A nurse entered the main sickbay pushing a cart of supplies. Before she could notice him, Pasha pushed away from the wall and slipped back into the corridor, trusting to the passing nurse to distract McCoy or Sulu from noticing he was ever there.  
\--

 

“I hate feeling so damn helpless.” McCoy poured another finger of whisky for himself and Sulu. “You don’t need to hear this. Forget about it.”

 

“I’m sorry.” Sulu picked up his glass and swirled it around, looking almost half as miserable as McCoy himself. “I should have--.”

 

“No. Not that stale horse shit again.” McCoy waved a hand at him dismissively. “The only people to blame for this are the ones who took Chekov. Nobody else.”

 

“Fine,” Sulu said evenly. “I’ll stop blaming myself when you do.”

 

McCoy clinked his glass against Sulu’s and drained it.

 

“Hello gentlemen.” Kirk leaned in the doorway. “I thought you might want to have a drink, but I see you started without me.”

 

“We’re off duty,” Sulu said, but he put down his glass without drinking it.

 

“Not objecting.” Kirk shrugged. “Just wanted in on the action.”

 

“Forget it.” McCoy shoved the bottle of bourbon back in his desk. “If the shift’s over, that means Chekov’ll be looking for me. ‘Scuse me.” He headed for the door, and Jim fell into step with him.

 

“One more thing. Bones--.”

 

“Can it wait?”

 

Kirk’s wide eyes betrayed his surprise, but he backed off. “Yeah, I guess it can wait.”

 

“Then I’ll talk to you later.”  
\--

 

Pasha had gone to ground in McCoy’s quarters. He curled up with his padd on the floor by the wall next to McCoy’s desk, but he couldn’t read. He sat staring blindly at the display and replaying in his mind the conversation he’d overheard. McCoy couldn’t help but see Pasha as damaged after witnessing those memories. He didn’t want McCoy to see him as weak. After all, the Usites’ training, as harsh as it had been, had not left him one of those mindless, broken slaves who could not function without orders. Pasha knew how to be obedient _and_ clever. He could be an asset to McCoy, if only he had a chance. More, he could be a worthy companion: one who could appreciate McCoy’s talents and keep him from becoming bitter in his loneliness. However, he knew McCoy’s healer’s heart would not let him take advantage of one he thought was weak. He would have to show McCoy how strong he was.

 

The whoosh of the door sliding open startled him into dropping his padd. He snatched it up immediately and stood. He spent a second struggling to find an appropriate greeting before settling on, “Hello sir.”

 

“Don’t call me sir,” McCoy said.

 

Despite his mistake, Pasha refused to be discouraged. “You don’t want me to call you master. What should I call you?”

 

“McCoy.” He tossed the stack of pads he was carrying onto the desk and headed over to the closer. “That’s what everyone calls me.”

 

“Except the captain.” Pasha followed him.

 

“Well. He’s special.”

 

“But McCoy is your surname.”

 

“That’s right.” From the closet McCoy pulled clean sleep clothes--a black shirt and pants—and brought them to the bed with Pasha trailing behind.

 

“You have a first name?”

 

“Leonard.”

 

“No no.” Pasha sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at McCoy, considering. “Leonard is too long. I should call you Leo. Lev. Like Tolstoy.”

 

McCoy stopped and turned to him eagerly. “You remember Tolstoy?”

 

“From today. I read about him today,” Pasha admitted reluctantly. “Sorry. I did not mean to raise your hopes.”

 

“It’s fine. I’m glad you’re learning,” McCoy said. He snatched up his clothes again and turned away. “Listen. I’m going to have some quarters made up for you.”

 

Pasha tensed. He’d been ready for this. “Is this about what you saw the other night? When I…” He gestured toward the bathroom.

 

“No. You’re your own man,” McCoy said, perhaps a shade too heartily to be convincing. “And now you don’t have to rely on anyone else to communicate--.”

 

“I don’t want my own quarters.”

 

“Well, you can’t stay here forever.”

 

This was not going as well as Pasha had hoped. “Leo…”

 

“Len.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Len. Is what my wife used to call me. Back when…” McCoy trailed off, as if he were embarrassed to have spoken. “Well, back.”

 

“Len.” Pasha tried out the word. “It sounds nice. Soft.”

 

McCoy shook his head quickly. “You need your own quarters.” He dumped his clothes on his desk chair this time and turned back to Pasha looking resolute.

 

“Don’t send me away,” Pasha said. “Please.”

 

“It’s not sending you away, it’s--.”

 

Pasha darted forward before he lost his nerve. He steadied himself against McCoy’s chest and sealed his mouth against McCoy’s, cutting off the flow of words. He’d kissed him before, on Bussar, but he hadn’t really known him then, hadn’t understood what he was like, and how lucky he was to be close to him. Pasha tried to put all that into the kiss.

 

McCoy turned his head to the side, breaking contact. “Hey…”

 

“Please…” Pasha tightened his grip on McCoy’s uniform. If McCoy refused him now, he might now have another chance. “Let me have this. Len? Please.”  
\--

 

“Chekov… No.” McCoy reached up and tried to pull Chekov’s hands from his shirt. “We can’t.” When he didn’t let go immediately, McCoy sighed, dragged Chekov over to the sofa, and forcefully sat him down on it. “I said no, damnit.”

 

Chekov stayed put, but he looked as if the distance between them wounded him. “I know what you think of me… What they all think of me. That I am stupid and worthless. That I am not him you lost. I know this, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I am not him. “ Chekov turned his face away. “You wanted him. Him. _Chekov._ ”

 

McCoy was surprised how he could make the name sound like a curse. Like it was someone who wasn’t him.

 

“You wanted him, but you won’t even touch me,” Chekov went on. He sat up straighter, resolute, and didn’t take his eyes of McCoy. “I know I have no right to ask this of you. But I could be good for you. I know I am not the same as him. Brilliant and brave and happy. You wanted him. You loved him.”

 

McCoy dropped down next to Chekov on the couch. Chekov’s words cut close, but the worst, the absolute worst of it was Chekov putting into words things McCoy hadn’t admitted to himself. “You figured this out through the meld?”

 

“No. I hear you talk to Sulu. I hear the way you talk about _him_ and I know that he means something to you that I do not.” Chekov tucked his feet up under him and turned to face McCoy. He leaned forward but didn’t touch, as if McCoy were a skittish animal he was afraid of spooking. “I am not good at many things, but this I can do. I could be good for you. I could.” Words dissolved into quick, panting breaths, and for a moment McCoy worried Chekov would hyperventilate. “It’s not fair, I know. You don’t ask for this. You are very busy and important man.”

 

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” McCoy ground out. His voice sounded harsh and hoarse.

 

“Don’t I?” Chekov’s eyes flashed at the challenge, and he inched closer. “Doctor, you are the first I can remember who has ever been kind to me. And you are the only one who does not look at me like I am a sick animal. If I could be allowed to stay with someone, I would choose you. Mister Sulu asked me yesterday what I thought of my future. I said I wished you would keep me, and he looked at me as if I had said something horrible.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Sometimes when I look at you working and doing brilliant things every day, I think my heart will beat right out of my chest because I am so proud. But then I remember that you do not belong to me. You belong to the ship and maybe to the Captain. You do not belong to me. I understand this. You are brilliant man. I have no right to you. But you are the best thing that could possibly have happened to me and I am sad that I think I have nothing you want. Nothing to offer you.”

 

“Chekov,” McCoy began, but Chekov waved him down. Evidently so long in enforced silence had left him with too much to say that couldn’t be stopped by such a half-hearted interruption.

 

“I could be good. I am not him, but there are things I can do.” He shifted his weight forward, pressing close to McCoy, and McCoy bore it. “I think if I can’t give you this, soon, you will send me away. I will have to go somewhere else because you have no need of me. And this makes me sad, but I understand. I accept this. I just wish you would give me a chance. You haven’t even let me try.”

 

Intelligent thought drifted out of McCoy’s grasp as Chekov’s eyes held him. “You’re not him, kid.” McCoy said at last. He turned his head away to focus on a dark corner of the room and not on the pleading face before him, but pressed together as they were, he was sure Chekov could feel his ragged breathing.

 

“How am I not him? You said I have his… genetic structure.” Chekov pulled at his clothes, at his hair. “This is his body. This is his brain. How am I not him?”

 

“You’re not _him._ ” McCoy snatched Chekov’s wrists and pinned them to the couch on either side of him.

 

“Okay. Yes,” Chekov said in a small voice. “I see. I’m sorry.” In his voice, Chekov betrayed what he thought he’d heard from McCoy: _It’s not you I want. It’s not you I love._

 

McCoy ached to be able to explain it to him: that he wanted Chekov, but not like this, not the way he was right now. Whatever he said would only hurt Chekov more, so he bit back his explanation and took the coward’s way out in silence.

 

Chekov leaned back, and McCoy released him. “If I promise not to touch you, can I stay?”

 

McCoy sighed. “Fine. Just tonight. But tomorrow I’m getting you your own quarters.”  
\--

 

McCoy needed coffee. He’d spent the whole night perched at the edge of his bed, waiting for Chekov to make another move. But in the dark, interminable stretch of hours from the time they lay down to the time McCoy admitted defeat and went stomping off to the mess hall, Chekov hadn’t so much as made a peep.

 

Once McCoy had a scalding hot mug of black coffee in his hand, the universe proved its dislike of him once again by sending an all-too-awake Jim Kirk striding into the mess.

 

“Bones! Sleep well?” Kirk asked. He dropped an arm over McCoy’s shoulder, and only some quick maneuvering saved him from a hot coffee burn.

 

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” McCoy scowled.

 

Jim steered him over to an out-of-the-way table. “That’s what you get for ignoring me yesterday.”

 

“I can’t drop everything and listen to your asinine stories whenever you want,” McCoy snapped. “I’ve got some important things to worry about right now.”

 

“I know that,” Kirk said mildly. McCoy had just enough time to feel like an asshole for berating a friend who was trying to cheer him up when Kirk asked, “How are things with him?”

 

“Not good.” McCoy didn’t have the energy to fashion a pretty lie, and besides, Kirk would have seen through it anyway. As it was, Kirk watched him intently, waiting for him to elaborate. “You remember what I told you about that night on Bussar?” McCoy remembered with a rush of shame the pleasure he’d felt when Chekov touched him.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Something like that.” He was a fool. A weak fool, to take advantage of this kid who by his presence made McCoy ache for Chekov—the Chekov he remember, maybe a hazy idea of a Chekov who never existed—and who had his mind set on tempting McCoy straight to special hell.

 

“I figured as much.” Kirk nodded sagely. “So here’s the thing…”

 

“Whatever you’re going to say, please don’t.”

 

Kirk continued as if he hadn’t heard. “I’ve slept with a lot of people, Bones.”

 

“You’re not going to fix this with sex, Jim!” The volume of McCoy’s objection caused the nearest crewmembers, several tables away, to studiously focus their attention on their food.

 

“Ease up.” Kirk held his hands up in surrender. “That’s not what I meant. I was just thinking.”

 

“Because that always ends well.”

 

“Listen, Bones. I’m trying to impart some wisdom here.” Jim leaned into the table. “I can’t imagine what those bastards told Chekov about who he is and what he’s supposed to do. But maybe the fact that he keeps trying to jump you should tell you something.”

 

“It tells me he thinks I’ll kill him if he doesn’t please me,” McCoy said bitterly. He still vividly recalled the abject terror in Chekov’s eyes that night on Bussar when McCoy had come at him with a hypospray.

 

“But you’ve told him you don’t want him for sex.”

 

“I’ve been pretty clear on that point, yes.”

 

“But people want sex for lots of different reasons,” Jim said. “This one girl--.”

 

“I am not in the mood to hear about your exploits.” McCoy started to stand, but Jim caught his elbow and pulled him back down.

 

“This is germane to the issue at hand.”

 

“Fine. But I don’t need the gory details about your conquests.”

 

“Here’s the thing. His sense of self-worth is completely bound up in his bedroom skills.” Kirk paused, waiting for a response, but McCoy didn’t care to speculate on whatever convoluted point his misguided friend was making, so he remained silent. Kirk forged ahead. “Bones. Chekov thinks he’s a sex slave. You’re telling him that the one thing he’s supposed to do, he shouldn’t. In fact, I bet you squealed like a nun whose virtue had been threatened and then ran away.”

 

“I didn’t run away,” McCoy objected. Although now that he thought about it, he had pretty much fled in terror when he found Chekov in his bathroom flushed from the aftermath of an orgasm. “Okay, once I ran away. The other time I hyposprayed him.”

 

“See?” Jim threw up his hands. “He probably thinks he disgusts you, or he’s not up to your standards or some nonsense. He’s trying to fit in here, but you won’t let him do what he does best.”

 

“You’re saying I should sleep with him?” McCoy asked incredulously. “Why of all the irresponsible--.”

 

“No, no,” Kirk said, and gestured expansively. “At least, not necessarily. I’m just saying try to imagine what he’s going through.”

 

“I was there, Jim.” McCoy reined in the anger that threatened to have him shouting at his friend. He didn’t find this situation funny in the least. “I saw how they treat their slaves. I know what they did to him. Don’t tell me to imagine; I don’t have to imagine. I understand.”

 

“Well good,” Jim shot back, equally serious. “He’s obviously looking for you to help him! Would it kill you to offer him a little affection?”

 

“No, that’s the damn problem!” McCoy blurted.

 

“Oh.” Jim cocked his head to the side as if he’d just heard something at a frequency only audible to dogs and starship captains.

 

“What?” An uneasy feeling welled up in McCoy as he recognized the sight of Jim working through a theory.

 

“Oh Bones.” Jim’s smile was sad, and didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re a mess, old man.”

 

McCoy deliberately refused to try to interpret that. Instead he said, “Don’t you have some sort of captainly duty you need to be doing?”

 

“Yes, actually.” Jim grabbed McCoy’s coffee and, ignoring its temperature, stole a generous gulp. “And you’re coming, too.”  
\--

 

Kirk admired the cool manner Spock maintained in their briefings with Commander Trenach, but he had to believe that under that patient exterior, Spock wanted to punch the man just as much as anyone. All things considered, Kirk was proud of himself for remaining relatively civil, as opposed to Bones, who sat at the far end of the conference table, openly fuming.

 

“We have had little difficulty tracking the ship,” Spock was saying.

 

“Yes,” Trenach said tersely. “However, the longer we follow the ship at this distance, the greater the risk of losing track of it.”

 

“Are you suggesting we try to attack?” Kirk asked. He was really going to have to find a better way than hypothetical questioning to convey to Trenach that his tactics were crap. “They’ve got a cargo bay full of what are essentially hostages.”

 

“I’m simply suggesting that we take advantage of all the resources at our disposal.”

 

“Like what?” Kirk asked suspiciously.

 

“What information have you been able to retrieve from that collar? The one that belonged to Mister Chekov?”

 

“Mister Scott had not yet succeeded in decoding any relevant information,” Spock reported serenely. “The initial scan of the collar provides only an identification number and the date of the last purchase. Presumably more information is stored inside the collar, but it is written in some sort of rough code or dialect probably familiar to authorized traders.”

 

“Surely Mister Chekov could provide some of the information you’re looking for.” Trenach’s smooth, oily tones failed to make his proposal sound less ridiculous. “Locations and names of traders, for example.”

 

“Mister Chekov has recently been through a very traumatic experience, and he’s not in any shape to be interrogated,” Kirk said tightly.

 

“I understand you had a long discussion with him yesterday,” Trenach said.

 

“That was different,” McCoy broke in. “An informal discussion with someone he knows is a hell of lot less stressful than facing a panel of ‘Fleet brass. We don’t even know what all they did to Chekov. He’s talking, sure, but there’s still a lot he doesn’t understand about us. Half the time I think he’s convinced we’re slave traders, too.”

 

“Perhaps Starfleet command would be better able to provide appropriate care for him.” Trenach turned back to Kirk. “The intelligence service has doctors with experience in dealing with patients who have been prisoners of war, or undergone other stressful missions. They may be better equipped to--.”

 

“Are you saying the medical care we’re providing is substandard?” Bones eyebrows seemed to be in danger of becoming permanently furrowed. “If you think--.”

 

“Bones, hold it.” Kirk held a hand out to warn McCoy off. “Trenach, it’s not a matter of experience. Mister Spock performed a mind meld with Chekov and concluded that the best thing we can do for him right now is make sure he feels safe and comfortable.”

 

“I’m sure that the care your crew is providing is excellent, Captain.” Trenach somehow managed to make the statement sound like an insult. “However, by your own admission you don’t know what they did to him. He could be a sleeper agent. You don’t know what the Usites are capable of. And Mister Spock, although we are of course grateful for your ability to mind meld, I’d like to remind the captain that you are not a trained healer.”

 

“Chekov is getting all the care he needs,” Bones snapped.

 

Trenach ignored him. “You have more to consider than Mister Chekov’s health, Captain. Lives hang in the balance, and the Fleet needs whatever information Chekov might have. Starfleet is better equipped to retrieve that information.”

 

“He’s not a damn computer--.”

 

“Bones,” Kirk said warningly.

 

“You’ve been unable to determine the cause of Mister Chekov’s amnesia thus far, and it seems to me that it’s in the patient’s best interest to let someone else look at the case.”

 

Spock attempted to interject, but McCoy beat him to it.

 

“Medical code states the treatment and transport of a patient is to be determined at the discretion of his attending physician. Which is me.” McCoy’s face was turning an alarming shade of red.

 

“Bones,” Kirk said, more sharply this time.

 

Trenach returned to addressing Kirk. “Need I remind you that Mister Chekov has valuable information pertaining to an ongoing investigation? If Starfleet Intelligence deems it necessary, I can have him detained for interrogation.”

 

Bones rose from his chair and stabbed a finger in Trenach’s direction. “If you’d think for just one damn minute about what’s best for Chekov instead of glory-hounding--.”

 

“Doctor, I object to the insinuation that--,” Trenach fumed, but McCoy rolled right over him.

 

“You wouldn’t be threatening to take a trauma victim away to have his mind poked and prodded at by some damn telepath-sensitive interrogators who won’t--.”

 

“Doctor McCoy!” The snap of command in Kirk’s voice, along with the use of his name and title, finally stopped Bones in mid-rant. “That will be all. You’re dismissed.”

 

McCoy recoiled as if he’d been slapped. Fixing Kirk with a glare that could have melted steel, McCoy closed his mouth on whatever else he wanted to say, swallowed hard, and strode from the room. As the door hissed closed, Kirk turned back to the table, where Trenach sat straight-backed and smug, and Spock had his hands folded neatly in the way that meant he very much wanted to have words with Jim.

 

Trenach smiled thinly. “Thank you, Captain.”

 

Kirk smiled back and said sweetly, “You’re not taking my crewman off this ship.”

 

Trenach’s smile disappeared. “Do you understand how important he could be to this mission? He has valuable information that could help us figure out how their trade works and where they might be headed. Are you really willing to throw all that away?”

 

“My crew’s safety comes first. Chekov’s not leaving my ship until my chief medical officer says he can.”

 

“I’m sure the Doctor McCoy will be happy to help facilitate your investigation as long as it doesn’t interfere with the treatment of his patient,” Spock added. “But of course any discussion you’d like to have with Chekov would be at the good doctor’s discretion.”

 

Trenach looked between the two of them and frowned. “We’ll see about that.”  



	7. Chapter 7

Pasha stood alone in the corridor outside Hikaru Sulu’s quarters, debating whether or not to ring the door chime. Doctor M’Benga had been kind enough to point him here after reluctantly providing the news that McCoy had been pulled into an early morning meeting.

 

The freedom of choosing where to go and who to talk to on the ship felt expansive but also left Pasha feeling somewhat paralyzed. Sulu had seemed to enjoy spending time with Pasha and had insinuated that he’d been friends with Chekov, but that didn’t mean he would be able or willing to provide useful answers to Pasha’s questions.

 

Nevertheless, he had to talk to someone. His latest attempt to make headway with McCoy had come to naught, and he was running out of time. After the dismal failure of last night’s discussion, McCoy would surely try to send Pasha away. In fact, perhaps that was the topic of McCoy’s “meeting.” Pasha pressed the control panel to activate the door chime.

 

Nothing happened. Pasha glanced nervously at the wall chronometer and realized that the lieutenant might be asleep. He was about to withdraw when the door slid open and Sulu emerged, dressed in the same standard sleep pants and top the doctor wore, blinking sleepily. “Chekov?”

 

“I am sorry to disturb you. Please, go back to sleep.”

 

“No, no. Come on.” Sulu waved him inside. “I’m awake now.”

 

Sulu’s quarters were smaller than McCoy’s. There was no desk, only a bed and a small table with two chairs. Along the far wall, several strange looking plants sat. Seeing where his attention had wandered, Sulu waved him onward. “That’s my collection. Kind of a hobby of mine.”

 

Pasha drifted over for a polite look. His eye caught on one plant that sat in a shallow black bowl. Its lovely bright orange flower looked inviting. He reached out a finger to touch, then remembered his manners and looked to Sulu for permission.

 

“Go ahead. You’re not allergic.”

 

Pasha ran a finger down the soft petal. It felt warm to the touch.

 

“It’s called _ptelea convivus_ ,” Sulu said in a strangely strangled voice. “I thought of getting rid of it, after you went away.” He came to stand next to Pasha and joined him in staring down at the pretty flower. “But it wasn’t the plant’s fault.”

 

“What wasn’t the plant’s fault?” He was in for another taste of something else Chekov had done splendidly, no doubt.

 

Sulu must have sensed his apprehension. “Never mind. What brings you here so early anyway?”

 

“I…” He fingered the soft petals of the plant and tried to formulate an explanation of his presence. He wish he knew why he was here: here in Sulu’s quarters, here on this ship, here at all.

 

“Okay,” Sulu said. “Let’s try this. Have you had breakfast yet?”

 

Pasha shook his head.

 

“Good. I’m going to replicate us some food, and then you’re going to tell me what the trouble is. Okay?”

 

Pasha couldn’t do anything but agree.  
\--

 

Sulu left Chekov to his own devices as he replicated a plate of pancakes for himself and a bowl of kasha for his guest. When he brought the food to the table, Chekov looked at it dubiously. “This is breakfast food?” he asked.

 

“So you told me.” Sulu shrugged. “Buckwheat never did much for me, but you always claimed that your grandfather lived to be a hundred eating that stuff every day.”

 

Chekov still looked skeptical, but he dug in a spoon, tasted a bite, and chewed thoughtfully. At last he pronounced it, “Not so bad,” and began cleaning his bowl at a respectable rate.

 

Sulu picked out his own breakfast while he watched Chekov eat. His stomach was so wound up in knots about why Chekov would seek him out that he didn’t have much of an appetite. At last Chekov sat back, resting a hand over his belly. Sulu asked, “Not that I’m complaining, but what brought you here this morning?”

 

Chekov fidgeted uncomfortably. “I’ve been thinking about something.”

 

Sulu waited for him to say more, but when it seemed as if he was never going to, Sulu prompted, “It’s got to be about McCoy, or you wouldn’t have to ask me. So. What’s the situation?”

 

Chekov’s answer caught him off guard. “What is your job on the ship?”

 

“What?”

 

“Your job. What do you do? Mister Scott fixes the engines, Miss Uhura translates languages, and you…?”

 

“I’m the pilot.” He wondered why the topic had never come up before. Perhaps he’d been so busy telling Chekov about Chekov he hadn’t thought to talk about himself. “I fly the ship.”

 

“Really?”Chekov seemed favorably impressed.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“How many years of training did it take to become a pilot?”

 

“A long time. Academy, flight school, officer training,” Sulu explained. He had no idea what had suddenly gotten Chekov interested in this.

 

“You must be a good pilot. Captain Kirk only accepts the very best on his ship, he says.”

 

“Well… Thanks.” There but for a case of lungworm… “I’m lucky to be here.”

 

“You love your job.”

 

“Yes I do.”

 

“That is good. Imagine that piloting a starship is the only thing you are good at. As if you did not know about fighting with swords or growing strange plants. If piloting is all you know.”

 

“Okay,” Sulu said slowly. He had no idea where Chekov was heading, but he’d follow, as always.

 

“Yes. Now, imagine what would happen if you are transferred to another ship. And on this ship you try to do your duty as usual, but wait, the captain stops you. ‘What are you doing?’ he says. ‘Stop piloting. You can’t pilot here.’ And you ask if there is another pilot, but the captain says no, there is not. He says his ship does not need a pilot and everyone on the bridge looks at you in disgust for even bringing up such a thing.”

 

“Every ship needs a pilot.” Sulu was starting to see where this was going.

 

“Tell that to Doctor McCoy.” Chekov sank into the chair by the table and propped his head on his hands.

 

Now Sulu was fairly certain they were on the same heading, but just to make sure, he asked, “This is a metaphor, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes,” Pasha said in exasperation.

 

“Chekov.” He dropped into the other chair. He couldn’t imagine how he would hurt if he were banned from flying, and now that he looked, Chekov seemed just about that miserable. Still, Sulu was having difficulty fathoming why Chekov was upset at McCoy’s failure to take advantage of him. “It’s not quite the same thing.”

 

“I know that.” Chekov’s cheeks flushed a bright pink.

 

“Hey.” Sulu scooted closer. “The difference is that I wanted to be a pilot. You didn’t have a choice about becoming a… becoming what you are, and McCoy knows it.”

 

A whistle shrilled from the panel on the wall. “Hold that thought,” Sulu said apologetically. He keyed in the command to acknowledge the incoming communication. “Go ahead.”

 

“Sulu. Good, you’re there.” That was Doctor McCoy’s voice. “Is Chekov with you?”

 

“Yes, I am here,” Chekov spoke up.

 

“Good. Can you just… stay with Sulu until the end of the shift?”

 

“Yes. If I will not be an inconvenience.” He looked to his host.

 

“Not at all,” Sulu said.

 

“Sulu, Spock’s rearranging the duty roster to give you the day off.”

 

It was on the tip of Sulu’s tongue to ask why, but then he realized if the doctor hadn’t mentioned it, he might not want to discuss it in front of Chekov. “Thanks doc.” He ended the transmission. “Well. Looks like I’ve got an unexpected vacation day. Thanks. You’re like a lucky charm.”

 

“Is something wrong?” Chekov asked.

 

“Probably not,” Sulu said with all the cheer he could muster. “The doc’s a soft touch. He probably just has some project he has to work on and didn’t want to leave you alone all day.”

 

“I do not need a babysitter.”

 

“No. But I’m not going to question the chance for a day with my long lost best friend.”

 

“You mean me?” Chekov seemed genuinely puzzled.

 

“No, the other Russian genius I hang out with.”

“I did not know we were _best_ friends.” Chekov looked thoughtful. “Although I can understand  
why Chekov would want to be friends with you. You are easy to talk to.”

 

“You know, this--,” Sulu spread his hands wide. “Actually constitutes friendship. Talking to each other about problems, spending free time together, playing hooky from work. We’re fulfilling the textbook definition.”

 

“Oh.” A small but genuine smile drifted across Chekov’s face. “That is kind of you to say.”

 

The response was close enough to an acknowledgement of their friendship that Sulu decided to move on. “What do you want to do today?”

 

“I do not want to impose.”

 

“You’re not imposing. Friends, remember?” Sulu said. Chekov’s smile came back momentarily, but he faltered in trying to find something to suggest. Thinking quickly, Sulu said, “Let’s go down to the exercise room. I’ll show you the basic ‘Fleet hand-to-hand combat stuff. That way next time you try to attack me you’ll have a fair shot.”  
\--

 

McCoy managed to survive the entire shift without setting eyes on Kirk or Trenach. Sickbay was quiet, so he busied himself with other chores: contacting the quartermaster, looking up civilian navigation schools, and researching experimental treatments for amnesia. Nurse Chapel tried to talk to him about the day’s routine events, but around noon she seemed to realize that McCoy was in the midst of one of his grumpier days and thereafter left him alone.

 

Two hours before the end of the shift, Spock cornered McCoy in his office. “Since the captain has no intention of letting Mr. Chekov leave the ship until you clear him, there is no need for Mister Sulu to supervise him at all times,” he said briskly. “I will expect the lieutenant back at his post tomorrow.”

 

“Fine.” McCoy pried himself out from behind his desk and went in search of something to busy his hands. At least Jim had had the good sense to send Spock instead of coming himself. McCoy thought he might just hypospray Kirk with a live sample of Talarian measles if he showed up in sickbay right now. “I didn’t ask you to rearrange all of creation. That was your own damn fool idea.”

 

Spock followed him relentlessly. “From your behavior this morning I concluded that you were concerned for Mister Chekov’s welfare. I wished to assuage your concerns.”

 

“I’m perfectly capable of dealing with him on my own.” In the main sickbay, McCoy spotted some medical instruments that had been removed from their cases, and set about replacing them while projecting his best “get lost” attitude.

 

Spock seemed stubbornly unaffected by McCoy’s cold shoulder. “I am not implying otherwise. The captain also expressed his confidence in your abilities quite vigorously to Mister Tenach.”

 

“Did he now,” McCoy muttered. So perhaps Kirk hadn’t been out of his mind; he’d only been employing some diplomatic tap dancing. That didn’t mean McCoy had to like it. “I’m glad you two approve of my methods.”

 

“However, I would advise you to re-consider your feelings about a mind-meld as--.”

 

“No. Absolutely not. You saw how the last one affected him.” McCoy tossed a poor instrument back into its case with unnecessary force and slammed the lid of the container.

 

“I have no wish to cause Mister Chekov further trauma,” Spock said. “However, if he is better prepared for the--.”

 

“It’s his choice. I won’t ask him to go through that again,” McCoy said, and threw Spock a glare for good measure.

 

“Doctor--.”

 

“I’ve got to go. He’ll be wondering what’s keeping me.” McCoy fled, leaving Spock staring after him with furrowed brow.

 

Crewmen recognized the murderous glint in McCoy’s eyes and got out of his path as he headed to his destination. Sulu called “come in” when McCoy activated the door chime of the lieutenant’s quarters. McCoy entered to find Sulu and Chekov huddled in front of a computer console, poring over what looked like a mission log. The remains of their dinner sat forgotten on the table behind him.

 

“Using the atmosphere of Titan was your idea, actually,” Sulu was saying. He nodded to the doorway. “Hello Doctor.”

 

“Hello sir,” Chekov added.

 

“I told you you don’t have to call me sir,” McCoy said, more gruffly than he’d intended.

 

Instead of cringing, Chekov suppressed a smile. “Hello Len, then.”

 

Coming from Chekov, the name caught him off guard.

 

Sulu looked between the two of them sharply, interested, but didn’t comment on the form of address. Instead he said, “So thanks for getting me the day off.”

 

“Not me. Spock’s idea,” McCoy said. He pointed to the display they’d been viewing. “Is that the file on the Narada mission?”

 

“Yes. We were going over old mission logs. Thought they might jog some memories.”

 

“Did they?”

 

“No,” Chekov said. “I am sorry.” He seemed about to move, perhaps to kneel or at least to bow his press McCoy’s hand to his head in supplication, but he refrained. His hands moved abortively up, paused, then dropped again.

 

“It’s not your fault,” McCoy said.

 

“Of course, sir,” Pasha muttered. He sounded hurt, though McCoy couldn’t figure out what could have set him off.

 

“We should be going,” McCoy said. “Thanks, Sulu.”

 

“Sure. See you later, Chekov.”  
\--

 

Pasha followed McCoy in silence, replaying their conversation in his head. _It’s not your fault_. In McCoy’s eyes, nothing was Pasha’s fault. Since he didn’t see Pasha as capable of making his own decisions, obviously Pasha couldn’t be blamed for his condition. It stung, a little, to be reminded how little his master thought of him.

 

A few steps ahead of him, McCoy broke the silence. “You two have a good day? Reminiscing and whatnot?” McCoy asked.

 

“Yes,” he replied. And the day had been surprisingly pleasant: he felt at ease with Sulu the way he did with no one else except McCoy. “Mister Sulu says we were best friends, before I was taken away.”

 

“Yeah.” McCoy threw him an unreadable sideways glance. “I suppose so.”

 

“Is that why he is so nice to me?”

 

“You’re still you, Chekov. Just… minus a few memories.”

 

“I thought you said I wasn’t him,” Pasha said sharply.

 

McCoy stopped in his tracks. Pasha watched him expectantly until he stammered, “I… Come on.”

 

They traversed a few more corridors in silence, until Pasha started to pay attention to their whereabouts. “This is not the way to your quarters.”

 

“No. I had them make you up a cabin,” McCoy said firmly. He’d obviously prepared for this moment, perhaps expecting that Pasha would balk. “It’s not the same one you used to have. They… They gave yours to someone else. But these are probably nicer.” They stopped in front of a door that looked identical to every other door they’d passed. McCoy keyed in an entry code and the door slid open to reveal a perfectly presentable and entirely unremarkable cabin.

 

Pasha looked dolefully up at McCoy. “I told you I do not want my own quarters.”

 

“Listen.” McCoy put a hand on Pasha’s shoulder and turned him toward the door. “You are my patient. I’m responsible for getting you better, and I can’t do that if I’m worried that… It’s not healthy, all right?”

 

“I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” Pasha dropped his eyes. The doctor was trying to be kind, he could tell, but Pasha would have found the whole operation less distasteful if McCoy had simply ordered him to stay here. “I did not mean to upset you.”

 

“Look, it’s not about… Let’s not make a big production of this, all right?” McCoy had returned to the same gruff tone he used when dealing with patients, strangers, and other people who weren’t Pasha. “I got you your own damn room, like I should have done in the first place. And you’ll sleep here and that’s all there is to it.”

 

“Yes sir,” Pasha said softly.

 

“I said you don’t have to call me that.”

 

“Len. Doctor.” He chanced another look at McCoy. “Am I being punished? Have I done something wrong?”

 

“No. Don’t be ridiculous. This is the way things have to be.”

 

“And then what?” Pasha prompted. “What are you planning to do with me?”

 

“Get your damn memories back!”

 

“And what if it cannot be done? You are a very competent doctor, but you must know that not all wounds can be healed.”

 

“I’ll figure it out.”

 

“And in the meantime I am to stay here alone and be useless?”

 

“I said I’ll figure it out.” McCoy seemed to realize he was shouting. He took a step away from Pasha, half-turning back to the corridor. “I’m going back to my quarters. You have everything you need here?”

 

“I can take care of myself, if that is what you are asking,” Pasha said. He didn’t entirely succeed at keeping the bitterness from his voice.

 

“Alright. That’s good.” McCoy turned back part way. For a moment, Pasha thought he might reach out to touch him, but he did not. “I’m not going to let them take you away,” he said finally.

 

“But you are not going to keep me, either.”

 

“Nobody needs to keep you, Chekov,” McCoy said with a sigh. “Nobody could, I imagine. I have to go.” He took off down the hallway at a pace just short of a run. Pasha watched him until he disappeared into the turbolift at the end of the hall.

 

The dark void of the cabin loomed like the mouth of a cave. Pasha hesitated in the doorway for another moment, then stepped inside. The computer automatically brought up the lights to an aesthetically appealing level. He found a set of sleep clothes in the closet, which he put on dutifully.

 

Pasha tried to go to sleep. First he lay on the bed, but it seemed cold and too large for just him. Next he went to the floor in the corner, but without the solid shape of his master in bed waiting for him, he began to feel foolish.

 

He walked around the room, which didn’t take long, a circuit of fifteen steps or so, and tried to feel at home. He climbed back into the bed, but still didn’t feel as if he belonged there, as if he had a right to be in this place.

 

This starship, Enterprise, had been his home once. If Sulu’s stories were to be believed, Pasha had been a valuable member of the crew, a navigator respected for his skill and innovation. His exploits were still talked about around the ship, Sulu had said. He’d had friends here: a best friend, even. But what he’d been to McCoy had never been clear, or at least no one was willing to explain it to him.

 

No matter what Pasha had been, he was something—someone—different now, as McCoy had so painfully driven home last night. If Pasha wanted to make a life for himself here, he would have to fight for what he wanted, even if it meant setting his sights on something Chekov had never had.

 

He got out of bed.  
\--

 

McCoy had been dreaming of stars spread out in a vast ocean, and a boat that sailed on the starry water with no danger of being crushed by the horrible vacuum of space. The stars had spread out above and around and below, fathoms deep, making beautiful constellations that he really thought deserved to be named. He thought he might know someone who could name constellations, but it was difficult to remember who he wanted with someone calling his name over and over.

 

“Len.”

 

McCoy jerked awake. “Wuhuh?”

 

Chekov sat on the edge of the bed. “I am sorry. I could not sleep.”

 

“Damnit kid, I’m a doctor, not a… Oh forget it.”

 

Chekov’s fists clutched the bedcover tightly. “I didn’t want to take advantage of you. I know it’s not right. But seeing you here… I didn’t mean to.” He shifted, dragging a leg onto the bed and throwing his body open to McCoy.

 

It was almost laughable. Almost. If McCoy hadn’t been in as damning a devil’s trap as he’d ever experienced, he would have laughed.

 

Because Chekov was hard. The prominent bulge between his legs tented the fabric of his sleep pants.

 

“Christ, kid,” McCoy said on a shaky exhale.

 

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” Chekov said softly. “I need… Something. You don’t want me, but I need something. I thought I could do without, but I need… Tell me what to do.”

 

“What is this, conditioning?” McCoy asked. He began to assess Chekov, looking for symptoms he could put together to form a diagnosis. “Some kind of drug? To make you loyal to your owner?”

 

“No,” Chekov said emphatically. “This is only me. You tell me I am free, but you act as if I cannot make a decision for myself. It is a comfort, like a second nature to me, to do this, but to you it seems everything I want is shameful. So please tell me, what am I to do?”

 

“It’s not shameful… Chekov… Damnit.” He fumbled for words even as he tried to shuck off the tangled covers.

 

“I am sorry. I am sorry.” Chekov gathered up McCoy’s hand and pressed it to his forehead in contrition. “This is not yours to solve.” He bolted from his perch on the bed but only as far as the wall by the desk. He braced his hands against the smooth expanse of wall and stood shaking.

 

“Chekov, don’t.” McCoy finally succeeded in untangling himself. He stumbled out of bed and followed him.

 

Chekov took a long, shuddery breath. “You must hate me for trying to make you do this thing you do not want.”

 

McCoy’s higher brain functions were telling him he shouldn’t touch, but seeing Chekov in pain overrode his better judgment. He wrapped his hands around Chekov’s shoulders. “Hush. I don’t hate you.”

 

“I know. This only makes it more difficult for me to understand.” He turned in McCoy’s arms and leaned against him as if he could not support his own weight.

 

“I’m sorry. I just have no idea what the hell to do about you.”

 

“I know.” Chekov rocked against him, and McCoy felt the hard slide of his erection against his thigh.

 

McCoy tightened his grip on Chekov’s shoulders, intending to stop him, but Chekov slotted his leg against McCoy’s groin, and all of McCoy’s capacity for rational thought was subsumed in a wave of arousal.

 

“Tell me what to do,” Chekov whispered as he rocked rhythmically against McCoy. “Tell me how to make this go away.”

 

“Hell… Oh hell.” McCoy couldn’t seem to think past curses.

 

“You are a smart man, Doctor.” Chekov’s voice was low, husky, and went straight to McCoy’s dick. “I know you can see how much I want you. I want to feel your hands on me, like you will not let go. I want you to open me, to move inside me.” He sped up his rhythmic slide against McCoy. “I promise I will make you feel good. You must know I have thought about it many times, until I almost blush to look at you in the daylight because I am afraid you will read on my face what I wish you would do to me.”

 

His hands clutched at McCoy’s shoulders as if he might fall, and his weight shifted forward, pressing them tighter, thigh to crotch. “There was a time I would have let any master do what he wanted to me, but not now. Now you say I am free, and I can choose, and the first thing I think of, the first thing I want is you.”

 

“Wait…” McCoy gasped. He shouldn’t let himself be swept away in the flow of those words, those powerful images that had him throbbing. He should be stronger than this.

 

“I have waited. I have tried.” Chekov tightened his grip on McCoy, hard enough to bruise. “If you tell me no, I will stop.” Chekov’s hot breath panting against McCoy’s cheek robbed him of all thought.

 

McCoy braced his hands on the wall behind Chekov, looking for strength, and he tried to say, “No.” Tried to say, “You don’t have to do this,” and “We shouldn’t.” Instead, he only succeeded in gasping, “Chekov.”

 

Taking his word as permission, Chekov began rutting against him again, faster, more desperately now, accompanied by high-pitched little exhalations. “Please, can…?” He pulled McCoy to the side, sharply, reversing their positions so McCoy was backed against the wall, and Chekov had a better angle to grind against him. Their cheeks pressed together, with Chekov’s eyes squeezed shut tight, and barely audible over the rustle of their clothes was Chekov’s filthy whisper: “You are what I think of… That night when you found me in… I was thinking of you… I was imagining… I wanted to know what this would feel like, what you would feel like.”

 

Chekov’s hands wrapped around McCoy’s waist and his mouth dropped open on a gasp as he stilled suddenly. The world seemed to freeze for a moment with Chekov anchoring McCoy somewhere surreal where all that mattered was the press of their skin together and the weight of Chekov’s arms around him. Then Chekov began to move again. His hand snaked down McCoy’s body. It felt burning hot as it closed over McCoy’s insistent, painfully hard erection.

 

“No,” McCoy growled frantically. He batted Chekov’s hand off of him and lurched away from the wall, but he only made it as far as the edge of his bed before he had to reach into his pants and take care of his urgent need.

 

He dropped onto the bed, braced one hand against his knee and stroked himself inside the loose sleep pants just once, twice, before he was biting back a moan at the image of Chekov’s pleasure, the memory of that delicate, desperately happy sound he’d made when he came. The end hit him hard and painfully. He curled in on himself, shaking, but still milking himself through the aftermath with slick, hot feel of semen on his fingers.

 

The bed dipped as Chekov, still fully clothed, came to kneel behind him. At least he had the good sense not to touch. “Len?”

 

“Damnit, kid. This has to stop.” McCoy could sense Chekov’s eyes on him, and the weight of unsaid words between them. He wiped his hand on the sheets, trying to scrub away the evidence. But he’d just done what he’d sworn to himself he would not. He’d let Chekov down. “This has to stop.”

 

McCoy dragged himself off the bed and made a break for the door, ignoring Chekov’s quiet sound of distress. No matter how much it hurt Chekov now, this would be better, he thought. McCoy obviously couldn’t trust himself to do what was right.

 

He was out of the door and in the hall, barefoot and breathless, in three seconds flat.  
\--

 

The door chime woke Kirk. He sighed when he saw the chronometer, which read 03:30 ship time. If there had been trouble on the bridge, someone would have raised him on his communicator, so this must not be an official emergency. But as the captain, he was responsible for dealing with whatever kind of emergency came to his door, even in the middle of the night. Especially in the middle of the night. Kirk swung his legs over the side of the bed and debated pulling on pants over his standard-issue briefs. He dismissed the idea, stumbled over to the door, slicking down his hair as he walked, and hit the code to open the door.

 

He frowned when he saw Bones.

 

The doctor wore an expression of pained chagrin. Without uttering a word, Bones shouldered past him and made a bee-line for the bathroom. The lock engaged with a hiss, and then Kirk heard the sonic shower click on.

 

“Damn,” Kirk sighed. McCoy’s presence and his agitated state could only mean one thing. He activated the communications panel and keyed in his code. “Lieutenant Sulu,” he told the computer.

 

Sulu acknowledged his communication with a “Captain?” that managed to sound both sleepy and alarmed.

 

“No emergency,” Kirk said quickly. “At least not the usual kind. Can you do me a favor and check on Mister Chekov?”

 

“Captain. It’s three in the morning.”

 

“I know that. I think he’s in McCoy’s quarters.”

 

“Uh. Sir.” Sulu sounded uncomfortable. “I’m not sure I want to interrupt--.”

 

“Bones isn’t there. Or not any more, at least.”

 

“Yes sir. I’ll check on him.”

 

Kirk ended the transmission. He pulled on some pants, just to be polite. Then he threw himself into the chair by his desk and waited for McCoy to emerge.

 

When Bones finally came out, he looked marginally cleaner but no less irritated. He went right to the cabinet by the door and pulled out a glass and the bottle of aged scotch he’d given Jim for his birthday. He poured a generous serving, slugged it back, poured another, and brought it with him to sit at the table.

 

“So,” Kirk said. “Come here often?”

 

“Your jokes are as bad as your advice.” McCoy didn’t crack a smile.

 

“What happened?”

 

“I’m a damn fool is what happened. I couldn’t control myself around him and I knew it and I let it happen anyway.” He took a gulp of Jim’s scotch and fell silent.

 

“So the two of you…” Jim prompted.

 

“Near enough.”

 

Jim stared at him with mounting disbelief. “You had sex with Chekov _and then you ran away_?”

 

Bones frowned profusely. He obviously hadn’t considered it quite that way before. “We didn’t… I didn’t…”

 

“Damn.” Jim grabbed Bones’ glass and took a swig. “And people say _I’m_ cold.”

 

“You don’t understand. I can’t be trusted around him.”

 

“Well apparently not! I thought if anyone would be sure to have Chekov’s best interests at heart it’d be you. Now you’re saying you… What, exactly? I mean, I don’t need you to draw me a diagram, but tell me you didn’t hurt him, at least.”

 

“I barely touched the kid,” Bones said weakly. He held out his hand, and Jim passed him the mostly-empty glass of scotch. “But the things he said, Jim. I wanted that. I let myself get carried away.”

 

“I told you before you don’t have to fight him so hard.” Kirk got up to grab another glass and brought the bottle back for good measure. “How can giving him what he needs be a bad thing?”

 

“He’s a patient, Jim,” McCoy said softly. Kirk didn’t think he’d ever seen McCoy so defeated. Even deep in his cups, Bones was grumpy and irascible, not maudlin. Kirk felt a twinge of guilt for failing to notice sooner how torn up his friend was over Chekov’s condition.

 

“Yeah, but everyone on the ship has been your patient at one time or another. Chekov’s your friend, too.”

 

“If you believe he’s still in there somewhere.”

 

“Of course he is. Having amnesia doesn’t make him _not_ Chekov. Are you going to stop being my friend the next time I get zapped with a de-aging ray or lose part of my brain in a transporter accident?”

 

“Don’t be an idiot, Jim.”

 

“I won’t if you won’t. Bones, you think you’re somehow helping Chekov adjust by pushing him away like this. You’re in love with him, so what’s the problem?”

 

“I never said I was in love with him.”

 

“Well aren’t you?”

 

“It’s beside the point.” McCoy poured himself another drink. “I’ll brief M’Benga on the case, have him take over. It’s not healthy for me to be around him.”

 

“Healthy for him or healthy for you?”

 

“Damnit Jim, you don’t get it. I saw how they treated him down there, how scared he was. Of course he was going to warm up to the first person who showed him a little kindness. And yes, damn you, I do want him. I’d have to be deaf, blind, and stupid not to want him. But no matter what he says, he can’t really love me. It’s just…misplaced gratitude, or obligation. A kind of hero worship for getting him out of that hell hole. So yes, I want him to be in love with me, but I know he can’t be, not really. I can’t let him do it if it’s not real, and it can’t be real.”

 

“I think you underestimate him, Bones. Yourself, too.” Jim settled back in his chair and took a swig of his drink. “I like to think of myself as something of an expert in the field of messed-up relationships, and I’m having trouble seeing why you’re being so stubborn about this.”

 

“That’s because you live for the moment. I can’t help but think down the road. He doesn’t know anything about the world. He doesn’t know he has choices. Once he gets out there and seems some of the universe, well, he’ll hardly want to come home to a cranky, alcoholic divorcee.”

 

Jim frowned into his scotch. “So your strategy is what? Make him miserable enough to leave you alone?”

 

“It’s for his own good.”

 

“You’re an idiot. And he’s going to tell you so when you get him his memory back.”

 

“What if I can’t get his memory back?”

 

“You will.”

 

“What if I can’t?”

 

“You’re the chief medical officer on Starfleet’s flagship. You can do anything. You’ve kept me alive, haven’t you?”

 

“Yes. I guess that’s a small miracle.” Bones drained his drink, but he didn’t look any less miserable than he had when he’d first arrived.

 

“Right.” Kirk snatched McCoy’s glass and the bottle of scotch and put them back in the cabinet. “That’s enough of that. It’s the couch for you.”

 

“I’m not tired,” McCoy grumbled, but he let Kirk drag him over to the room’s low sofa. He dropped onto it as if it had offended him somehow.

 

“Sleep it off, old man. You’ve got a shift in four hours.”

 

“I’ll call in sick.”

 

“I’ll tell your boss.”

 

“You are my boss.”

 

“Damn straight. About time you noticed. Now go to sleep.”

 

McCoy slumped onto his side on the sofa. “Maybe I will.”

 

As Kirk walked away, he heard Bones mutter, “Th’nks, Jim.”  
\--

 

When Sulu arrived at McCoy’s quarters, Chekov was just stepping out in the hall. Past him, through the open door, Sulu caught a glimpse of McCoy’s usually disordered cabin looking suspiciously tidy. Chekov froze halfway out the door when he saw Sulu, but at least he didn’t run or hide. “I—I…Sir…,” he stammered.

 

“I was looking for you. Is something wrong?”

 

“I think I did something bad.”

 

“What? What the hell happened? You kill a man or something?”

 

Chekov’s laughter sounded a step past hysterical.

 

Sulu glanced around the hallway, but no one else was in sight. He guided Chekov gently back into McCoy’s cabin where he stood shifting from foot to foot, clearly agitated. “Tell me what happened,” Sulu prompted gently.

 

“He ran away from me. I thought for a while that it was right between us, but I must have misunderstood. He ran away.” Chekov seemed to recognize the shrill edge in his voice, because he made a visible effort to bring himself back under control. “I cleaned everything up.” He spread a hand around McCoy’s immaculately clean quarters. “But I wasn’t certain…What do I do now? This can’t go on, he said.”

 

“He wants to get your memories back, get the old you back.”

 

“Mm.” Chekov shook his head quickly: almost a shiver. “Nothing has helped so far. Mister Spock said that if he went inside my mind again, he may be able to retrieve the memories, but…

 

“But what? Why won’t you let Spock try to fix you?”

 

“You all tell me it would be better if I were my old self again. But I do not see this. All I see is that the only thing I have hoped for, the only thing I have enjoyed in a long time would be gone.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Do you know what is the very best thing that has ever happened to me?”

 

Sulu shook his head.

 

“The first night I remember on the ship, when I knew McCoy would not give me away, he took me here, to his room. And when I asked he let me sleep in his bed. He did not mean to touch me, but in his sleep he put his arm around me. Here.” Chekov laid a hand on his belly. “He was holding me in his sleep, and I could pretend that he cared for me and had invited me into his bed.” His eyes darted quickly over to the bed, then away just as quickly. “Every night I tell myself, ‘Maybe tomorrow, if I am very good, he will want me.’”

 

“Chekov--.”

 

“Did the old me, the other Chekov, did he ever sleep in McCoy’s bed?”

 

“No. Not that I know of.”

 

“Then I am luckier.”

 

“Chekov… Have you ever thought about why McCoy won’t touch you?”

 

Chekov nodded. “I am not good enough. He does not want me.”

 

Sulu watched the sadness deepen in Chekov’s eyes, the weight of it seeming to press him into an even smaller space. “Well, there’s no way I can know what McCoy really thinks, but I have a different theory.”

 

“What is it?” Chekov perked up from under the mantle of his melancholy.

 

“He’s in love with someone else,” Sulu said carefully.

 

“Someone else?” Chekov sat up straighter and looked sharply at him.

 

“And if that’s true, perhaps McCoy is worried this person won’t approve of his relationship with you.”

 

“Who is he in love with?” Wheels were turning in Chekov’s mind, that much was obvious. “Is the doctor married? I did not see a ring, but--.”

 

“No,” Sulu chuckled. “He’s been divorced for years.”

 

“Then who? Someone on the ship? Tell me.”

 

“I think he’s in love with Pavel Andreevich Chekov.”

 

For a moment Chekov only stared at him, wide-eyed. Then a hopeful smile slid onto his face. “He loves the other me? Who I was before?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m pretty sure he does.”

 

“Then I was wrong. He is luckier than me.”  
\--

 

McCoy dragged his bleary eyes open to see a fully dressed Jim Kirk looking haughtily down at him. “Time to work, old man,” Jim said brightly. He beamed with unrepentant glee as he hustled McCoy off the couch and into black uniform pants that were a little a tight on him and a plain black uniform undershirt. “Spare boots from the last time you got drunk here.” He tossed them in McCoy’s direction. “But I hope you’ve got spare science blues in your desk. Otherwise you’ll have to brave your quarters.” Kirk barely let McCoy get the boots on before hauling him out into the corridor and shooing him off. “Go on. And I expect an update on Chekov’s condition by thirteen hundred hours. That’s an order.”

 

“Go to hell, Jim,” McCoy grumbled as he shuffled off down the hall.

 

“Don’t make me sic Spock on you!”

 

McCoy waved a hand to acknowledge Jim’s threat and kept trudging in the direction of sickbay.

 

Christine Chapel all but pounced on him the moment he crossed the threshold. “What did you do?” she demanded.

 

“Nurse.” McCoy kept moving. He stumbled to his office and pulled a rumpled uniform shirt from his desk. Once he had managed to yank it on, Chapel hadn’t gone away. “What do you mean?”

 

“To Chekov. What did you do?”

 

“I…” He pulled at the hem of his hopelessly rumpled shirt. “Nothing.”

 

“Doctor. I don’t mean to overstep my bounds, but this cannot go on. Talk to him. Whatever happened, you owe him an explanation. Wouldn’t you agree?”

 

“Damned if I do, damned if I don’t,” McCoy grumbled. “Whatever I say to him will only make it worse.”

 

“I find that difficult to believe. Look.” She pointed back out toward the main med bay. Chekov stood at the far end of the room, talking to Nurse Aldridge. “He’s been here all morning. I showed him how to recharge the dermal generators so he could have something to do with his hands. Of course, that took him about six minutes.”

 

McCoy watched as Chekov assisted the nurse, who was changing the bandage on an engineering ensign’s burn. He handed her the materials as she called for them. Chekov no longer shrank away from loud noises or strangers, and he actually smiled at Aldridge when she said, “Thank you.” He’d made great progress in the week he’d been on board, so much that McCoy could barely picture him as the frightened slave who’d prostrated himself in that room on Bussar.

 

“Leonard, I don’t know what happened between you, but I wish you’d make it right with him.”

 

McCoy let his eyes drop shut. He’d lost Chekov once before. He wouldn’t lose him again through his own cowardice. “I’ll try.”

 

“Promise me?”

 

“Leave it, Christine. I’ll do what I can.”

 

“Fine.” Chapel gave him a knowing look and handed him a padd. “Here are today’s cases. But the most urgent case is Ensign Chekov.” She walked off and left McCoy staring dejectedly at the ground. He tried to compose some sort of speech that would explain why he couldn’t give Chekov what he wanted, but every attempt sounded laughably clichéd.

 

He stole a look at Chekov. He was still over by Nurse Aldridge, but now they were talking softly together. McCoy froze when they turned in unison to look at him. Chekov offered him a tentative half-smile that didn’t come close to the unguarded grin he was capable of. McCoy managed an acknowledging wave and then decided it wouldn’t be so bad to see just one patient while he gathered the courage for this conversation.

 

No sooner had he turned to retreat when the alert klaxons screamed to life, startling McCoy into almost tripping onto a biobed. “Damnit, Jim,” he muttered under his breath. Not knowing what was happening on the bridge meant that McCoy could never predict when a boring morning might turn into a crisis. When sickbay filled with the red glow of flashing alert lights, McCoy’s years of combat experience kicked in. He whirled to see Chekov standing against the wall near the bio beds, tense but not panicked. “You okay?” he called.

 

“Fine,” Chekov replied with false brightness.

 

The wall console whistled, and McCoy slapped the button to acknowledge, expecting the standard orders to prepare to receive causalities. Instead, Uhura’s voice, clipped and efficient, said, “Doctor McCoy, you’re needed on the bridge.”

 

All other thoughts fled McCoy’s mind as he began to imagine how the bridge crew might be injured. “Be right there.” He grabbed the emergency med kit from its place by the door. “Stay here,” he called back to Chekov, and raced out into the corridor, which swarmed with crewmen. Each one coolly and quickly headed to his or her battle station. McCoy fell in with the throng and hustled toward the bridge.

 

“Brace for impact,” cut in over the ship’s intercom. McCoy had only seconds to fumble his way toward the wall before the world went tilting crazily, and he lost his footing.  
\--

 

Pasha hesitated a moment before following McCoy out of sickbay. The doctor had said to stay put, but if there was danger, Pasha knew he’d rather be at McCoy’s side. “Brace for impact” sounded over the speakers just as he reached the doorway. He grabbed for the wall and held on as the ship tilted and shuddered. Just as he thought the turbulence was finished, the ship jerked again, hard. Pasha managed to clutch onto the doorframe and remain upright, but in the hallway, chaos reigned. A wall console had buckled under the pressure and now flames danced merrily along the wall around the damage.

 

Most of the crewmen in the corridor were getting back to their feet, but Pasha spotted a blue-shirted figure slumped against the wall. Pasha dodged past crewmen working to put out the fire and knelt next to the still figure of Doctor McCoy. “Sir?” Pasha touched his shoulder gingerly, loathe to do any more damage.

 

McCoy didn’t respond. A trickle of thick, red blood oozed down his temple. Pasha’s hand drifted cautiously to McCoy’s head and came away bloody. He sprang to his feet and dodged back through the hallway.

 

The first person he saw in sickbay was Christine Chapel. He planted himself in front of her and pointed emphatically to the hallways. He held up a hand to a spot slightly above his head to indicate McCoy’s height, then brought his fists together and snapped them down to show something breaking.

 

“Who’s hurt?” Christine asked.

 

He started to make his sign for height again, and his mind raced through other possibilities on how to make her understand.

 

It took Christine’s grabbing his arms and saying, “Chekov, what _happened_?” to remind him he could speak.

 

“Doctor McCoy,” he blurted. “He’s hurt. Out there.”

 

“Show me,” Christine said.  
\--

 

The familiar sound of Jim Kirk complaining woke McCoy.

 

“It’s not even bleeding anymore!”

 

McCoy opened his eyes to see Jim sitting on the neighboring bio bed while Nurse Chapel pointed a medical scanner at the various bruises and abrasions decorating his face.

 

“Unless you’d like to risk an infection, Captain, you’ll let me patch you up before you go back to the bridge.”

 

“Bones! You’re awake!”

 

“Unfortunately.” McCoy pressed a hand to his head, which was positively throbbing.

 

“Doctor!” Chapel turned her attention and her scanner to McCoy. “How’s the concussion.”

 

“Feels great. Jim, what the hell was going on up there?”

 

“Just a little disagreement with the Usites when they figured out they were being followed,” he said darkly. “But we’ve got it under control now, obviously. I see you couldn’t even be bothered to make it to the bridge.”

 

“I seem to have been the victim of someone’s terrible driving skills. Christine, hand me that painkiller.”

 

“Well you can thank Sulu later for giving you a little turbulence instead of letting us get blown to bits by a torpedo barrage. Besides, it seems like your volunteer medical staff took care of you alright.”

 

“Volunteer…?”

 

Jim nodded to the far side of the room. McCoy turned to see Chekov stationed next to a row of occupied bio beds at the far end of the room. Nurse Aldridge was tending to a nasty-looking gash on a security officer’s leg and Chekov was on hand to provide each tool as she called for it.

 

“He found you bleeding in the hallway and came to tell me you needed help,” Chapel explained.

 

“Did you talk to him?” Kirk asked McCoy.

 

“Sorry, I was busy getting concussed.”

 

“I told him, Captain,” Chapel put in. “He’s stubborn.

 

“Thanks,” McCoy growled. Chapel gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder and walked away.

 

“Bones,” Kirk said after a moment. “We lost the ship we were tracking. Sulu and Kelso are trying to plot out some guesses as to where they might have gone, but--.”

 

“That was our best lead.”

 

“Yes.” Kirk scooted to the edge of his bed and threw his feet to the floor. He looked to the far end of the room, then back at McCoy. “Trenach’s going to want to question Chekov.”

 

“Let him try. I’ll--.”

 

“I know, Bones. I’m not going to let them take Chekov away. We just have to do the best we can for him.”

 

“I’ll talk to him,” McCoy said. “He deserves that much.”  
\--

 

“Thanks Chekov.” Nurse Aldridge took the last instrument from Pasha and favored him with a warm smile. “You’ve been very helpful.”

 

“My pleasure,” Pasha replied. He did enjoy being useful, even if none of the tasks in sickbay were particularly suited to his talents. Helping with menial tasks was still better than sitting in the empty cabin they called his and worrying about McCoy. Nurse Chapel had assured Pasha the head injury was not severe, but the blood had put Pasha in mind of other times, other wounds. He hovered at McCoy’s bedside until Christine had stopped the bleeding and shooed Pasha away to let the doctor get some rest.

 

At least now Pasha could see McCoy was awake and talking to the captain. Sulu had told him the two had been friends for many years. Pasha envied the easy camaraderie between them. The captain gestured emphatically from his bed, and McCoy nodded at whatever point he was making. Clearly Kirk knew how to make the doctor understand him in a way Pasha could never hope to match.

 

Pasha plucked up his courage and approached them. “Captain. Doctor McCoy,” he said with a respectful nod. “I’m glad you are recovering from your injury, sir.”

 

“I hear you had some part in that.”

 

“It was no large deed.”

 

“Well thanks all the same.”

 

The whistle of an incoming communication sounded from the wall panel. Kirk’s eyes darted to the source. McCoy began, “You’re supposed to be recov--.”

 

Kirk jumped out of bed and hit the button to acknowledge the communication. “Kirk here.”

 

“Captain.” Spock’s voice cut through the buzz of sickbay. “Mister Trenach is on the bridge. I believe you wanted to speak with him.”

 

“Thank you Spock.”

 

“Captain,” Spock continued. “You may want to bring Doctor McCoy.”

 

“Acknowledged.” Kirk ended the communication. “Bones, I have a fight to pick. Let’s go.”

 

“May I come with you, sir?” Pasha asked. He wasn’t ready to let McCoy out of his sight yet.

 

“Sure,” Kirk broke in. “You belong on the bridge as much as anyone.”

 

“Jim, I don’t think--.”

 

“We’re not trying to hide him, Bones,” Kirk said. “This is my ship, and Trenach needs to know that my crew can go wherever they damn well please.”

 

“Or you just enjoy poking a hornets’ nest with a loaded phaser.”

 

“Let’s go, gentlemen,” Kirk cut him off.

 

Pasha saw the muscle clench in McCoy’s jaw. “Fine.” McCoy followed the captain and gestured for Pasha to do the same.

 

Pasha had never been to the bridge before, but Kirk led on confidently. McCoy trailed the captain in stony silence, and Pasha followed them through long corridors, around bends, and finally into a turbolift. The doors parted to reveal a large, open space where crewmembers sat at shining computer terminals. He recognized Uhura and Sulu, who both looked up from their stations when the trio walked in. Spock stood stiffly at attention next to a large white chair in the center of the room.

 

McCoy and Kirk strode right in, but Pasha stopped in the doorway, frozen by the sight of the room’s most prominent feature: a large screen showing the vast black expanse of space dotted with stars that rushed forward and streaked like rain on a window. He’d forgotten he was on a ship, cutting through the night sky and weaving among the very stars he’d seen from the ground. A soft “oh” escaped his lips at the sight, which called to him in a language he couldn’t decipher.

 

“Chekov?” McCoy appeared at his side, brow furrowed. “You alright?”

 

“Yes.” Pasha tore his eyes away from the stars. Kirk was conversing in low but heated tones with a short, ashen-blond man in a red uniform. McCoy still stared at him. “I am fine,” Pasha insisted. When the red-uniformed man’s attention swung to him, he regretted having spoken.

 

“Are you Chekov?” the stranger asked.

 

He glanced to McCoy for guidance, but McCoy’s attention was focused on glaring at the red-uniformed man as if he could strike him dead with the power of his eyes. “Yes sir,” Pasha said warily.

 

“You’re not a Starfleet officer.” He took a menacing step toward Pasha. “You’re not authorized to be on the bridge. McCoy, you don’t know what he could be doing when you take your eyes off him. He should be confined to the brig. Or at least his quarters.”

 

“He’s not a damn criminal,” McCoy snapped.

 

“All the same, we’ve discussed certain…possibilities about Chekov’s condition that I don’t wish to repeat at this time. I recommend you show a little caution.”

 

Pasha backed away from the man’s glare. “I’m sorry,” he said hastily. He didn’t know who this man was, but he seemed to have some authority over McCoy, and perhaps even the captain. He hadn’t intended to cause his master trouble.

 

“Chekov’s as good as a member of my crew,” Kirk broke in. Pasha, McCoy, and the stranger all turned to look at him. Kirk sat in the large white chair Pasha had noticed earlier. He leaned back, a king comfortable in his throne. “He goes where Bones says he goes.” He seemed to correct himself. “Wherever he wants.” Kirk turned on a smile that reminded Pasha of a hunting cat and made him want to freeze to avoid notice. “Or is Starfleet intelligence trying to tell a captain how to run his ship?”

 

Silence clamped down on the bridge tight enough that Pasha stopped breathing. The steady ping of instruments sounded unbearably loud.

 

Kirk and the stranger stared unwaveringly at each other until the red-shirted man said tightly, “No. Captain.”

 

“Good.” Kirk’s predator’s smile morphed into a broad, good-natured grin. “Glad that’s cleared up.” He stood and swaggered over to Chekov. “But you don’t want to hang around here all day, right Chekov? I imagine you’ve got better things to do. Go to the mess or your cabin or the rec room or wherever you damn well please.”

 

“Yes sir.” Pasha swallowed hard and nodded. Over Kirk’s shoulder, the man glared at him, furious. Feeling like he’d just escaped the clutches of two tigers, Pasha took one last look at the boundless field of stars spread out on the viewscreen, and then exited the bridge  



	8. Chapter 8

Spock folded his uniform shirt neatly. Examining his feelings at the action, he discovered that he felt pleased to be off duty, for once. Today’s encounter with the hostile Usites and their subsequent escape followed by Kirk’s loud and lengthy “discussion” with Mister Trenach had tired him, and tomorrow would bring a renewal of the search for the slavers who had evaded them. At this late hour, Spock eagerly anticipated a few hours’ rest.

 

The chime of the door stopped him in mid-step. Spock mentally readied himself for an encounter with Kirk. Often Jim would seek out his company after a day like this one. However, it was not Jim who greeted him when he answered the door, but Pavel Chekov.

 

“Commander Spock?”

 

“Yes.” He held back the word Ensign, since the man standing before him no longer technically held that rank. He settled on, “Mister Chekov. Come in.”

 

Chekov stood just inside the doorway with his hands clenched to fists at his sides. “I know it is late. I hope I have not disturbed you.”

 

“No. Please come in.” For all that many of the Enterprise’s crew saw Spock as cold and impersonal, he was a keen observer of the human condition. Spock did not fail to notice the tension in Chekov’s shoulders or the tightness in his voice; he would not come here unless his errand was important, but he wasn’t willing to speak of it yet. Spock could be patient. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

 

Chekov seemed to struggle with himself for a moment before shaking his head no. After seeing the memories of how Chekov’s captors had encouraged him to relate to authority, Spock didn’t wonder at the behavior. One whose mind had been as carelessly and repeatedly violated as Chekov’s could be excused for distrusting him, however illogical the impulse. “You wished to speak with me?”

 

“Commander.” He took two steps further into the room. “If I do not recover my memories… No one has told me what will happen. When I ask, Mister Sulu tries to joke with me, and Doctor McCoy refuses to discuss this. I believe you will tell me the truth. If I do not get better, will I be allowed to remain on the Enterprise?”

 

“No,” Spock said, as gently as he could.

 

Chekov nodded calmly, as if he’d expected as much.

 

“As you’ve seen in the past few days, the Enterprise is a dangerous place,” Spock explained. “The personnel on board must be highly trained to deal with emergencies.”

 

“I understand,” Chekov said gravely. “Sir, I have for you a request.”

 

“Yes?” Spock was uncertain what favor Chekov would think to request from him rather than Kirk or McCoy.

 

“The mind meld you performed before to help me talk… You said you may be able to fix my memory in the same way?”

 

Spock raised an eyebrow in interest. He had not expected Chekov to approach him about the mind meld. “Your mind is not a machine. It is not broken, and therefore ‘fixing’ it is a complex undertaking.”

 

“Yes I know. You’re not a tinkerer, like Mister Scott. But you told Doctor McCoy that you might be able to restore my memories.”

 

“At the time, you expressed opposition to that proposal,” Spock said. As he recalled, McCoy’s opposition had been more vigorous still.

 

“I am no longer opposed,” Chekov said, undaunted.

 

Spock cocked his head to the side. “What changed your mind?”

 

“I was scared, before, of what would happen to me. But now I think this other man, the one who everyone misses, is lucky.” Chekov looked down, and Spock thought there might be longing in the expression he wore. “He can do things I cannot. He can hope for a future I will never have.”

 

“You talk about him as if he were another person,” Spock observed. “You _are_ he.”

 

“Maybe,” Chekov shrugged.

 

“With certainty,” Spock corrected. “If I am able to restore the memories that have been repressed, it should have no effect of the memories you currently possess. The returning memories will simply add context to what you now know.”

 

“I will not be… erased?” Chekov asked in a small voice.

 

“Is that what you thought to ask for?” Spock followed the logic of that assumption. Chekov’s reluctance made sense now. If he thought this mind meld would destroy his conception of self entirely, then what Spock was offering must seem like death to him. And yet here he was, offering himself up to it. “No. If you wish, I can attempt to soften the memories of your ordeal. However, experience has taught me that even painful memories have value.”

 

Chekov clasped his hands behind his back and seemed to consider. Finally, he said, “He should not have to remember the things I have seen.”

 

“He is you, Chekov. You survived what was done to you, and bear the scars with courage. But the choice is yours. I’ll honor your wishes.”

 

“I will consider.”  
\--

 

Spock had a few preparations to make for the meld, not the least of which was meditating to center himself for the attempt, so Pasha sat quietly and tried not to think of what McCoy would do when this was over. The silence and serenity of Spock’s quarters soothed him, and he found himself drifting in a pleasant, thoughtless haze, almost like meditation, as he waited for the Vulcan.

 

He had no idea how many minutes or hours had passed when a hand touched his shoulder. “It is time,” Spock said.

 

Pasha settled himself on the floor at the center of a lovely plush rug that covered a good portion of the room. Spock knelt beside him with no comment.

 

Spock reached for Pasha’s face, but stopped short of touching him. “You are certain of your choice, Mister Chekov?”

 

“Yes,” Pasha said. His resolve had not wavered, and he would not let it. “I am ready.”

 

Spock arranged the tips of his fingers carefully on Pasha’s face. “My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts.”

 

This time Pasha had a better understanding of the meld, so Spock’s presence inside his mind felt merely strange rather than alarming. Spock slid past the memories he’d seen last time, past all the memories Pasha tried not to recall, moments that had shamed or harmed him. As Spock’s consciousness penetrated further, Pasha began to hear the mutter of his memories swirling around them both, clamoring for attention and pulling at Pasha.

 

Spock’s presence was steadfast, and Pasha found he could move in the Vulcan’s wake as they drifted further back into Pasha’s mind. He saw the early days of his captivity, the memory he’d recently revisited of the master taking away his voice.

 

“Show me.” Spock’s voice echoed in his mind and his ears. “Take me as far back as you remember.”

 

Pasha balked at the whisper of memories he did not want to recall, but the way down was also the way out, he knew. With Spock’s presence solid behind him, he delved further, fighting the feeling of sinking deeper into a mire he wouldn’t be able to escape. He led them along until they hit a barrier that sent Pasha cringing away. Distantly he was aware of Spock’s hand on his shoulder holding him up, of Spock’s fingers still pressed to his face.

 

Spock leaned into the barrier, and Pasha’s memories seemed to swarm angrily around him, chattering and pressing at them both. Pasha would have curled up on himself if he’d been able, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Instead, he watched as Spock rammed against it, hard. With a shock that rippled through Pasha’s body like a physical blow, Spock broke through.

 

The barrier did not collapse: it shattered, drawing Pasha in with the force of a singularity. Memories swirled around him, running fast like a vid in reverse:

 

_A terrible pressure was pushing against his mind, one he had no strength to fight. Hands were pressed to his temple while others held him down. The face of his first master was swimming in his vision. The guards were hauling him into the light, screaming and struggling. One of them was tying his hands together so tightly he lost feeling in his fingers. They were laughing and telling him his friends had abandoned him here. He was prying open the wall and trying to piece together a communicator from the door controls. Another prisoner, an older woman, was whispering to him about what they did to new slaves. He was waking in the cold dark of a holding cell._

__

 

_One of them—the enemy—was injecting him with a hypospray as the sunlight slipped away. They were stripping him; they were taking away his phaser, all his equipment. The burn of a phaser blast was catching him in the side and sending him tumbling to the dirt. He was turning to run. One of them was kicking the phaser out of his hand. Chekov was drawing his weapon. The leader was raising his phaser, and the other three were surging forward. They were all grinning at him._

__

 

_“I am part of a peaceful Federation mission,” he was telling them in clear, enunciated Standard. He was looking up to see four large, hulking figures standing not ten paces away._

__

 

_He was kneeling and rubbing one of the deep orange petals between his fingers, thinking how amused Hikaru would be when he brought back the bigger share. He was spotting a mature plant, low to the ground. He was wending his way through the vast yellow fields, scanning carefully for his quarry. He was shouldering his bag. He was waving jauntily to Sulu. “May the best man win,” he was saying._

__

 

_He was back on the Enterprise. He was tracing a circuitous route on the star chart at his console. He was running to the transporter room to save his friends in free-fall above Vulcan. He was jogging along the San Francisco Bay. He was in Professor Spock’s office in the Academy science building trying to talk his way into the Advanced Tactics Seminar. He was waving to his parents from the shuttle pad in Moscow. He was visiting his cousins in Ulan Ude, running through empty fields that extended to every horizon, and above him were sparkling more stars than he could ever hope to know._

 

Spock let go, and Chekov rushed back to himself. The pieces of his mind snapped into place so hard he was left gasping, wordless, and shaking on the floor.  
\--

 

The shrill whine that signaled a communication sent McCoy jerking upright in bed. For a moment he froze, disoriented. He was alone in bed—and damnit, it hadn’t been long enough that such a state of affairs should seem strange—and the room was dark. He untangled himself from the covers and stumbled over to the communications panel. He’d more than half expected an interruption tonight, especially because he hadn’t seen Chekov since the incident on the bridge. He hadn’t wanted to chase the kid down in case he didn’t want to talk, but as the evening wore on with no sign of Chekov, he’d had to admit he missed the kid. He could have at least have thanked Chekov for hauling him back to sickbay during the Usite attack, but Chekov seemed to have come to his senses. McCoy had been encouraging Chekov to leave him alone, but he hadn’t factored in how disappointed he’d be to be jarred awake by an incoming communication rather than by a familiar figure standing next to his bed.

 

The whistle sounded again. McCoy stumbled the last few steps and hit the comm pick-up. “McCoy!”

 

“Doctor McCoy. May I please see you in my quarters?”

 

Spock. He wouldn’t be calling after midnight unless there was an emergency. “Am I going to need my med kit?”

 

“I do not believe so. This matter concerns Mister Chekov.”

 

“I’ll be right here.”

 

McCoy must have put on clothes, somehow, but he didn’t remember any of that, nor the journey that brought him to Spock’s door. His finger hovered next to the control for one tense moment before he brought himself to press the door chime. The portal slid open almost immediately.

 

“Doctor,” Spock said. He gestured McCoy inside. Two half-full teacups sat in their saucers on the table, as if old friends had been spending an evening reminiscing here.

 

At the far end of the room, in a high-backed chair, Chekov sat. He stood up when McCoy entered. “Doctor,” he said softly. “Hello. It’s me. It’s Chekov.”

 

McCoy stared stupidly for a moment until the significance of those words registered. “Chekov?” He took in Chekov’s posture, back eagerly straight, and the hopeful, weary smile that played on his lips, and his eyes. They caught McCoy’s and held them, expectant. Now that he had the original against which to compare his memory, McCoy realized he’d been thinking of Chekov as timid and young. Here in Spock’s room, standing tall and sure of himself, he looked every inch the Starfleet officer he hadn’t been yesterday. “It’s really… You’re really…?”

 

“The Commander helped me find myself again.” Chekov nodded in Spock’s direction.

 

“I thought as much,” McCoy said, though honestly his mind hadn’t reasoned past _Chekov, Chekov, Chekov Chekov Chekov._ He turned to the Vulcan. “Spock…”

 

“Mister Chekov came to me to request my assistance,” Spock said. “The attempt was his choice.”

 

“You really did it.” McCoy turned back to Chekov. He _did_ look different, though physically there couldn’t have been any change.

 

“Thank you, Commander,” Chekov said to Spock. “Doctor, I was thinking--.”

 

“Right, of course,” McCoy nodded. “I want to check you out, do a scan, see if there’s any damage.”

 

Chekov recoiled slightly, as if that hadn’t been the answer he was expecting. “Yes, of course. We can go to sickbay.”

 

McCoy led the way toward the door, but stopped next to Spock. He knew he should say something, some acknowledgement of the amazing thing he’d done for Chekov, but no words seemed right. He settled on a gruff, “Thanks, Spock,” and headed into the corridor with Chekov close behind him.

 

They walked to sickbay in relative silence. McCoy had grown used to Chekov following a precise two paces behind him, but now they walked side by side. He kept sneaking glances over at Chekov as they walked, just to reassure himself that the man—the _real_ , honest-to-God man—was still there.

 

Sickbay was fairly deserted at this hour: just a skeleton crew. McCoy and Chekov were a common enough sight that they elicited no comments from the staff. McCoy wondered if he should say something, if he should tell them, crow to the world and make a ship-wide bulletin that Chekov was back. But it wasn’t his secret to tell, really, and Chekov didn’t seem anxious to enlighten anyone they ran into.

 

“I feel fine. I think there are no complications,” Chekov said as McCoy bustled around checking equipment.

 

“Still, it wouldn’t do for you to suddenly start bleeding out your ears,” McCoy pointed out. “Lay down.”

 

Chekov obediently stretched out on a bio bed, and McCoy initiated a full scan. There was comfort in this: medicine gave him routine and control, even if his mind wouldn’t give up the rhythmic repeat of _Chekov Chekov Chekov_ that had been running since they left Spock’s quarters.

 

The scan beeped to signal its completion. “That’s it.” McCoy hit a few buttons on the controls to route the analysis through his office panel, where the system could check for all the necessary complications. “Sit up. I’ll be right back.”

 

When McCoy came back with the results of the scan, Chekov was hovering by the supply cabinets. He turned back quickly, as if he’d been caught out at something. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants and asked, “So what is the analysis, doctor?”

 

“You’re fine.” McCoy gestured to the padd. “No strange brain waves, no physical anomalies.”

 

“I feel healthy,” Chekov said. Then, more softly, “When he performed the meld, Spock gave me a choice. I remember everything.”

 

“Everything.” McCoy’s pulse pounded in his ears for a few beats as he considered what that “everything” might encompass. “You remember when they took you?”

 

“Yes.” Chekov didn’t cringe away or drop his eyes when he spoke, as McCoy had come to expect. He simply stated his answer calmly, as if he weren’t admitting he’d just re-gained a memory that was highly traumatic.

 

“And… You remember what happened on Bussar.”

 

“Yes.”

 

McCoy’s gut twisted uncomfortably. “Listen,” he began. “I’m sorry for the way I reacted to--.”

 

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Doctor,” Chekov broke in. “You rescued me. You helped me.”

 

“Well, I wasn’t able to fix you,” McCoy said, without being able to keep all the bitterness out of his tone. “Spock gets credit for that.”

 

Chekov made a terse, noncommittal sound. Then he said, “I am tired. Do you think that I could go to my quarters?”

 

“Yes, of course. You’ve spent enough time in sickbay.”

 

Chekov hopped off the bed and looked back at McCoy expectantly. “Walk with me?”

 

“Alright,” McCoy said reluctantly.  
\--

 

Of course Chekov was fine. He was more than fine: he felt as if he’d woken from a deep sleep fraught with nightmares. But still, Doctor McCoy seemed unsure how to respond to this sudden change in the man he’d come to know much better over recent events. As the two of them walked through empty corridors to the guest quarters they’d assigned him, the silence stretched between them, taut as it had never been when Chekov couldn’t talk.

 

They stopped in front of Chekov’s door. McCoy looked poised for flight, so Chekov hit the door controls, grabbed McCoy’s hand, and dragged him along behind like a much-loved stuffed animal.

 

Just inside the room, McCoy planted his feet and pulled his hand out of Chekov’s grip. “You should get some sleep,” he said hoarsely.

 

Chekov decided to ignore him. He hit the panel to turn the lights on to half, then turned back to see McCoy still standing by the doorway. He leaned against the wall, casually, as if this were a usual situation for the two of them. “Did you ever think about the first thing you would do when you came back from a long vacation?” he asked.

 

“No. I’m not really one for vacations.”

 

“Well think for a moment.” He walked back toward McCoy. “If you were gone for a year, and came back, what’s the first thing you would do?”

 

“I wouldn’t want to go anywhere for a year.” McCoy shook his head. “Chekov, you don’t have to--.”

 

“I’m only asking what your plan would be, doctor. If you came home after a long absence.”

 

McCoy swallowed hard. “I suppose I’d…”

 

“I would say thank you to the person who brought me home.” Chekov leaned up and tilted his head at a slight angle to press his lips against McCoy’s.

 

McCoy’s hands drifted up to brace against Chekov’s shoulders, then pushed him away, gently. “I should go.” He turned toward the door, but Chekov grabbed his wrist and pulled him back.

 

“Do not run away from me,” Chekov said seriously. “Leave if you must, but you can at least tell me why.”

 

“You don’t know what you’re doing.” McCoy wouldn’t look at Chekov. “You just went through a very traumatic--.”

 

“This is what you have been telling me since I arrived on the Enterprise. But things are different now.”

 

“Yes, and I thought once you were in your right mind again, you’d know why this isn’t a good idea.”

 

“You do not want me now that I’m myself?”

 

“Chekov,” McCoy began.

 

“I have a first name, you know. It is Pavel.”

 

“Pavel. If you’ve still got those memories, they may be influencing--.”

 

“No. I am a genius, you said so yourself. Several times. You think despite the fact that I am so smart, I cannot know what I want? You said before you wouldn’t sleep with me because I was not myself. Now I am, and _you_ are out of excuses, sir.” He moved forward, crowding into McCoy’s personal space. “Now tell me. Do you mean what you said? Is it me you want? Is it me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Chekov gripped McCoy’s shoulders and kissed him again, slowly but inexorably coaxing his mouth open to lick inside. McCoy tasted familiar, slightly like whiskey, even though all he had to go on were the memories of the few kisses Pasha had stolen.

 

McCoy held still under his hands, letting Chekov take what he wanted, but seemingly afraid to give anything back. Chekov slid his hands down McCoy's arm to grab his hands and lead him further into the room. "I think you still doubt. Why would I lie?"

 

"I don't understand why you'd want me."

 

"For a doctor, you can be very stupid, Len." Chekov kissed him on the nose and then tugged McCoy's shirt up over his head. "You knew I wanted you before I went away. You are an amazing man: handsome and brave and now I think you are just trying to get me to say nice things about you. How many times must I say these things before you believe me?"

 

"At least once more," McCoy muttered.

 

"This last week, I have spent more time with you than I ever did before. I have seen you in bad times, I have slept in your bed, and I am grateful for it. I understand you now better than I ever have. And I would think you should understand me."

 

"You haven't been yourself."

 

"You keep saying that.” Chekov yanked his shirt off over his head in irritation and flung it aside. He ran his hands down over his bare chest and watched McCoy’s eyes go wide. “What part of this was not me? I was still myself, just without some memories. Everything I felt I still feel. And I want you not out of gratitude or obligation, but because you are the kind of man who could save me."

 

This seemed to defeat McCoy. His shoulders slumped and he looked away. "Chekov... I'm sorry I couldn't help you more. I'm sorry we didn't find you sooner. I'm--."

 

"Stop it." He dug his fingers into the muscle of McCoy's arm. "Not now, and not ever will you even think that. What happened was not your fault, nor the captain’s, nor Hikaru's, nor mine, and you will leave it alone. Besides, I think you have something more pressing to think about."

 

McCoy swallowed his protests as Chekov kissed him again. He seemed to relax a fraction, and he settled his hands on Chekov hips. Chekov hummed contentedly into the kiss. His hands slipped down between them to undo his pants and push them down along with his underwear, keeping his movements slow and unhurried. McCoy caught a breath and held it until Chekov kissed it out of him. "Shh," he soothed. "It is alright. I am here now."

 

Chekov pressed McCoy back toward the bed, stepping out of his pants as he walked. He plied McCoy each step of the way with another kiss. "Down," he said.

 

McCoy lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, and Chekov slid to his knees in front of him. He leaned his head against the side of McCoy's knee and looked up at him. "I have told you so much about what I like about you. Now you tell me what you like about me."

 

"Chekov." McCoy reached out a tentative hand to tangle in Chekov's curls. "Just look at you. I... I'm not a damn poet."

 

"Fair's fair," Chekov said solemnly. He trailed a hand up the inseam of McCoy's pants, stopped just shy of the bulge staining under the fabric, and traced his fingers back the way they'd come. "Tell me something."

 

"You're the opposite of me. You're young, and you're a damn genius, and you try to please everyone all the time.” His fingers moved against Chekov’s scalp, cradling his head. “And the way you care. You're always trying to help, always trying to fix things, even when it's none of your damn business."

 

Chekov slowly undid the clasp of McCoy's pants and eased them open. "Then I am not the opposite of you." He hooked his thumbs around the waist of the pants and looked at McCoy. After a quick intake of breath, McCoy pushed himself up so Chekov could strip the rest of his clothes, underwear included, down and off. McCoy sank back onto the edge of the bed. Chekov rested his hands on McCoy's knees and looked up at him.

 

"Don't kneel," McCoy said suddenly. "It makes me think..."

 

“Yes. Okay.” Chekov put a knee up on the bed and climbed up to straddle McCoy’s waist. Their erections bumped together as he lowered his weight. McCoy hissed through his teeth, and Chekov frowned. “It is not supposed to hurt. You are a doctor, you should know such things.”

 

“Doesn’t hurt,” McCoy grunted.

 

Chekov wrapped his arms around McCoy’s waist and curled forward to rest his head on McCoy’s shoulder. “If it is too much, we can stop,” he said softly. “I was not thinking how difficult this would be for you. You had to see me like that.”

 

“I don’t know what to do.” McCoy’s voice was tight with frustration, though who he was frustrated with, Chekov couldn’t be sure. “I can’t help thinking I’m going to hurt you. I’ll be just like them—the ones that did this to you.”

 

“You will not. You could never be. Listen.” He sat up so he could meet McCoy’s eyes. “This is what we will do. Lay back.” He planted a hand at the center of McCoy’s chest and pushed him down gently. “You can’t make me do anything I do not want to do, yes?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good. Scoot.” He climbed off McCoy and waved a hand up the bed. When McCoy began to drag himself further onto the bed, Chekov got to his feet and fumbled in the pockets of his pants until he came up with the capsule of medical-grade lubricant he’d lifted from sickbay. He clutched the little packet tightly in his hand as he crawled back onto the bed, straddling McCoy’s legs. McCoy propped himself up on his elbows and watched him silently. McCoy stretched a hand out to slide down Chekov's flank. He looked at Chekov as if he were precious, but his eyes didn't hold as much of the fear as he had shown before, that Chekov was made of glass and would shatter if he touched him.

 

"I am here," Chekov said. He pressed his left hand against McCoy's chest, to prove he was _there_ and _solid_ and _himself_. He bent down to rub his face against McCoy's thigh, inhaling the salty, homey scent of him: the scent that clung to the sheets and the pillows in McCoy's bed that Chekov hadn't even known he missed when he'd been exiled to quarters of his own. He slid his face further up to nudge against McCoy's erection, which stood hard and proud between his legs.

 

McCoy's sharp intake of breath showed he was paying attention, but otherwise he held completely still. "You can move, if you want," Chekov said in amusement. "You don't have to lie there and take it."

 

McCoy grunted an acknowledgment. Chekov resolved to make him stop feeling guilty and enjoy himself. He flicked out his tongue to tease the tip of McCoy's cock. McCoy’s hips jerked in response. He said nothing, but his eyes darted to the ceiling and his teeth fastened onto his lower lip. Chekov took that as a good sign. He licked a stripe up the side of McCoy's cock, and when he reached the top he closed his mouth over the head.

 

McCoy raised a hand to reach toward Chekov, then stopped himself. Chekov reached out his own hand to grab McCoy's wrist and pull it to him, dragging McCoy's fingers to tangle in his hair. He pulled his mouth free for long enough to meet McCoy's eyes and say, "Touch me. Talk to me. I want to know it is you."

 

"Pavel." McCoy's grip tightened in Chekov's curls as Chekov swallowed him down further. "That feels... Damn it all to hell. I thought about this, too. I was going crazy, having you right there but not being able to touch you."

 

Chekov bobbed his head down all the way, taking McCoy almost to the hilt, then pulled off. “You can have me now. I want you to.” Chekov shifted up on his knees and fumbled with the lube. He slicked his fingers and pressed two inside right away. He hadn’t done much of this before he was taken, but the skills he’d learned in the past year helped here. McCoy watched him warily, and Chekov decided to try a different tack. He climbed off McCoy and wriggled into position on his side, facing him.

 

“Help me,” Chekov said. He hooked a leg over McCoy’s hip and grabbed McCoy’s hand. He squeezed lube onto it and guided it down and between his legs. McCoy’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I want you to open me up,” Chekov whispered, and McCoy’s eyes went wide again.

 

The back of McCoy’s hand brushed against Chekov’s arching erection, and he shuddered in pleasure. At that, McCoy slid his hand along Chekov's cock with a maddeningly light touch. "Go on," Chekov urged. "Or I won't last."

 

McCoy nodded wordlessly and slid his hand further back. McCoy's fingers were thick but gentle. One slid in easily because the way was already slick.

 

Chekov's mouth fell open as he reveled in the sensation of McCoy touching him, gentle and sure. McCoy smiled at him and dropped a kiss at the corner of his mouth. Chekov congratulated himself on arranging them face to face so that McCoy could see exactly what he was doing: turning Chekov into an incoherent puddle of need.

 

"More," Chekov mouthed, although there was no reason to be silent.

 

McCoy obliged him, sliding another finger slowly inside of him before beginning to pull them in and out, screwing them into Chekov.

 

Chekov panted against McCoy's shoulder and dug his fingers into McCoy's arms. He tried to hold his hips still, alternating between wanting to thrust his cock against McCoy's belly or shove his ass back to take more of his fingers. Then McCoy's fingers turned and curved in such a way that Chekov forgot about controlling himself. A strangled shout startled him, and it took McCoy's concerned expression to realize the noise had come from him. "Again." Chekov's voice shook even on that one word. "Yes, again."

 

McCoy moved his fingers, sliding along the same spot that sent Chekov writhing against him. "Please. More."

 

"Are you sure--?"

 

"Yes," Chekov growled, and shoved back against McCoy's hand.

 

"Alright, darlin. Take it slow." McCoy withdrew his fingers, reached for the discarded capsule, and added more lube before bringing his hand back to tease at Chekov's entrance. "Tell me what you want."

 

"I want your fingers inside me. Please," he added for good measure.

 

McCoy breached him again, with three fingers this time. Chekov closed his eyes, the better to concentrate on pleasure. His cock throbbed, thick and heavy, pressed between their bodies. McCoy slid his fingers further in and crooked them, hitting the spot that sent Chekov bucking. Frantically, he clamped a hand around the base of his cock to stave off the completion he could feel building.

 

"Wait," Chekov whispered. McCoy froze, and Chekov leaned against his shoulder, trying to slow his breath. "I don't want to finish this way. I want you inside me."

 

He opened his eyes to watch McCoy consider: the play of emotions on his face was obvious as always. Finally, McCoy said, “We shouldn’t do this. Not this way. It’s too soon. Let me--.”

 

“No," Chekov said firmly. "It's not too soon. I want to replace all that. I want new memories, and I want them with you." McCoy seemed to melt at that. Chekov pressed his advantage with a kiss, then whispered, "Please?”

 

“When you put it that way…”

 

Chekov pulled away and let McCoy's fingers slide out of him. He pressed McCoy onto his back and threw a leg across his waist to straddle him. McCoy's erection stood proudly, shining with pre-come and Chekov's saliva. Chekov's stomach gave a lively flutter at the thought of McCoy inside him, finally, acknowledging him, claiming him. He leaned down once more to slide his smooth cheek against McCoy's stubble. "Do you really want this? Do you really want me?"

 

"Isn't that my line?" McCoy chuckled. Chekov kept waiting, so McCoy answered him seriously. "Yes. I keep thinking I'm going to wake up any moment, because things this amazing just don't happen to Leonard McCoy."

 

"They do now." Chekov pressed their lips together and opened his mouth. Instead of lying passively, McCoy kissed him back, grateful and desperate, with a hand tangled in his curls. When McCoy finally broke the kiss and sank back onto the bed, Chekov rolled up on his knees. He reached down to rub a slick hand over McCoy’s cock, then held it steady.

 

McCoy’s hands wrapped around Chekov’s hips. “Careful.”

 

“You know I won’t break.” He lowered himself slowly. The first blunt press at his entrance had him looking down at McCoy. He’d waited so long for this, he had to reach down and grip McCoy’s shoulder to remind himself that he was real, that he wasn’t dreaming.

 

"Damn." McCoy's breath came fast and shallow as they stayed locked together, not moving yet, just adjusting to the feel of each other. "Pavel. Damn it," he said again, as if he couldn't remember any other words.

 

With an effort, Chekov pulled himself up, reveling in the feel of McCoy sliding back out of him until just the tip was buried inside. Then he slid down again, agonizingly slowly. Each inch that filled him felt like blessed relief.

 

McCoy's hands clamped down harder on Chekov's hips. "Please," came out of him sounding strangled.

 

Chekov lifted up again, faster this time, and slid back down at the same speed. There was no pain. There had been so often in the past year he'd almost forgotten what it was like to enjoy this. But he wouldn't let those who had taken him take this, one of his favorite things, and twist it into pain and shame. He wanted this so badly he thought the pleasure must be radiating off of him in rays invisible to the naked eye. For the first time in a long while, he wasn't afraid. He felt only the glorious stretch of McCoy inside him, the safe assurance of McCoy's hands anchoring him, the sound of McCoy's ragged breath and encouragement.

 

As he picked up the pace, his breathing synched with McCoy's: quick panting to steal enough breath to sustain himself, because he didn't want to be distracted from these feelings, even to breathe. He leaned back to brace himself the bed, and on the new angle, McCoy hit that same place he'd touched earlier, knocking a gasp out of Chekov.

 

The high-pitched noise sounded almost like pain, so Chekov rushed to clarify, “Yes, please. Please. Again.”

 

McCoy spread a hand against the small of Chekov's back to hold him in place, and this time when Chekov thrust down, McCoy's cock slid directly over the sweet spot. Chekov grabbed his own leaking erection and jerked frantically. McCoy's hand came to cover his, and they stroked together as Chekov continued to ride McCoy. His rhythm became sporadic as his muscles seized up. He lost his coordination entirely as his awareness narrowed to the stretch of McCoy inside him, McCoy's hand warm on his back, his other hand tangled with Chekov's around his cock. When the wave of pleasure finally overtook him, Chekov's eyes squeezed shut tight, and he could swear he saw stars.  
\--

 

McCoy drifted awake to the sound of humming. He lay still, content to drift in the half-awareness between dreams and sleep as memory caught up with him: being called to Spock’s room, Chekov leading him back to this room, being ridden by Chekov until the completion felt like the best kind of cleansing fire. He didn’t remember falling asleep.

 

He sat up in bed. The room was still mostly dark, but a dim light illuminated a curly-headed figure sitting on the floor at the far end of the room. He was humming: a strong, rhythmic tune that suited him. McCoy couldn’t place it. He scooted to the edge of the bed and swung his feet onto the ground. He didn’t like the sight of Chekov on the floor. The horrible idea seized him that last night had been a dream. “Chekov?” he called.

 

“Good morning.” Chekov turned and smiled at him, really smiled, and he knew he hadn’t been imagining things. “Did I wake you?”

 

“No.” McCoy rubbed the back of his neck, chagrined at his doubt. “I heard you humming.”

 

“I could not sleep.” Chekov twisted around where he was sitting to face McCoy. “My brain keeps busy shuffling through my old memories like they are a deck of cards. It is funny; they seem new again almost. I just remembered this song: Stravinsky’s Zhar Ptitsa.” He hummed a few bars. “I would make my papa play this over and over on his violin when I was a child. But I forgot it when they tampered with my mind.” He hummed a few more bars, and smiled when McCoy still looked perplexed. “It does not matter. It is back now.”

 

“With the rest of you,” McCoy said.

 

“Most of me, anyway.” Chekov held up a piece of yellow fabric that had been draped across his lap. McCoy recognized it as a command uniform shirt.

 

“Where’d that come from?”

 

Chekov glanced to the replicator, then at McCoy with an incredulous look that said, _Do you really need to ask?_.

 

“Right. Genius.”

 

Chekov shot him a mock glare. He held up the shirt against his bare chest. “I wanted to see if this would make me feel more like myself.”

 

“Does it?”

 

“I cannot tell. I want to sit at the conn and chart a course. That is me, not a uniform.” He tossed the shirt aside and sat cross-legged, his pale skin glowing in the dim light. “What’s going to happen now?”

 

McCoy threw himself back down on the bed and thought about that for a moment. “I’ll put you on medical leave for a while, just to run some more tests.”

 

“I want to go back to duty,” he said, and his features took on a steely resolve. “I want to help catch the people who took me, so they cannot hurt anyone else.”

 

“I’m sure Kirk will find a way to reinstate you. The man doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘procedure.’”

 

Chekov stood up, as naked as McCoy. He looked as if he were bracing himself. “I want to tell you something.”

 

“Alright.” That didn’t bode well.

 

Chekov came towards the bed and settled straddling McCoy’s lap. “I’m not the man who went away a year ago.”

 

“I know,” McCoy said softly. He did know. Even when Chekov smiled now, he’d lost the bright, unguarded grin of old Chekov. There were shadows in his face now, and McCoy supposed there always would be.

 

Chekov draped his arms over McCoy’s shoulders and slumped forward, letting McCoy take his weight. “That man is never coming back.”

 

“I know.”

 

Chekov’s breath hitched, and McCoy realized in all this time, for all he’d seen Chekov frightened and vulnerable and desperate, he’d never seen him cry. “Do you really know? He’s gone. I am a different man now, with all that has happened to me. Pasha may have thought we were separate people, because he did not remember me, but I remember everything that happened to me, and there is no way to go back to who I was.”

 

“I know.” He rubbed a hand down Chekov’s back and closed his eyes. “Chekov, I know. It’s alright.”

 

“I do not want you to be disappointed because you are in love with a man who does not exist.” Chekov pulled himself back up to sitting and looked McCoy right in the eye. “If you wanted only him, if you were hoping I could go back to being him, you must tell me. I cannot be him.”

 

McCoy faltered. He wanted to have some words that would make Chekov understand. Instead, he said the first thing that came to mind. “I don’t know what would have happened between us if you hadn’t been taken. But there’s no use in speculating on what might have been. Why do you think I’ve been tearing myself up over this? I wanted you. I wanted you before you left, and I wanted you once I found you again. Is that what you want to hear? I couldn’t bear to think that you’d get your memories back and come to your senses and regret what we’d done.”

 

Chekov chuckled. “What a pair we are. As I say, sometimes for a doctor you are very stupid.”

 

“And you’re pretty stupid for a genius.”

 

“Then we are a matched set.” Chekov closed his eyes for a kiss, and McCoy gave it to him.

 

The wall panel whistled with an incoming communication. Chekov pulled away, annoyed.

 

“We couldn’t hide forever,” McCoy grumbled.

 

Chekov climbed off his lap, grabbed his pants off the floor and pulled them on, and then activated the audio. “Chekov here.”

 

“Mister Chekov,” came Spock’s voice. “The captain asked for an update on your condition. I thought you would be more qualified than I to provide such an update. That is, if you have rested sufficiently.”

 

“Yes sir,” Chekov said. He glanced over at McCoy. “He is on the bridge?”

 

“That’s correct. With Mister Trenach.”

 

McCoy scowled, but Chekov just smiled and shook his head. “We can be there in twenty minutes.”

 

“Thank you, Mister Chekov.” A brief moment of silence drifted over the link before Spock said, “Welcome back.” The communication cut off.

 

“We should get cleaned up,” Chekov said. He pulled McCoy up off and bed and toward the en-suite bathroom. “You can’t go to the bridge looking like you just had really amazing sex.”

 

“No, wouldn’t want to ruin my reputation.”

 

In fifteen minutes they were clean and re-dressed. McCoy finished pulling on his boots, and saw Chekov looking at himself in the mirror.

 

Chekov settled a hand over the Starfleet insignia on his uniform. “It is not as easy as this, you know,” he said softly. “Things will not go back to the way they were.”

 

“Of course not.” McCoy said. He went to stand beside Chekov. “But we’ll find our way.”

 

Chekov turned and smiled at him, almost bright enough to banish the shadows. “I suppose it is a good thing I am a navigator, yes?”

 

“I’m still this ship’s CMO, and you’re not navigating anywhere until I clear you for duty.”

 

“Yes sir.” Chekov threw him a mock salute. “Please lead on.”

 

McCoy stepped out into the hall, and Chekov walked beside him.  



End file.
